


Don't Think Twice

by sixpetalpoppy



Series: Oliver/Hermione [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Ron Bashing, here lies ron bashing, not even sorry for it though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-26
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-02 17:44:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1059710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sixpetalpoppy/pseuds/sixpetalpoppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oliver is moving higher into the Quidditch world, but he's scared that soon he'll be stuck in a rut he can't progress from. Hermione is 6 months after a break up with Ron, overwhelmed by work and losing her sense of self in her inbox tray. AU Oliver/Hermione</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

-Hermione Granger-

There was an owl on my desk. Originally, I’d told myself that if I ignored the owl then said owl would go away and leave me to merrily continue with my work. Merrily may have been an exaggeration, of course, but the sentiment remained: I did not want to read this post. Firstly, I had a large enough pile of letters, papers and reports to trudge through without adding another to the list, but that was the easy excuse; the real reason I was avoiding eye contact with the owl that was eyeing me with contempt was because I recognised it as Molly Weasley’s owl. With Molly Weasley’s owl came another invitation. Another invitation to Sunday lunch, Sunday lunch with Ron and his family, admittedly they were my family too, and I loved them dearly, but Molly was relentless with her attempts to mend the rift between myself and Ron. Molly believed that the pair of us were a match written in the stars, as sickening as it sounds, and no amount of protesting from either of us held much sway over her fantasies.  
When the owl begun to peck and scrape at my sleeve, the vicious little thing, I yielded to its attack, taking the envelope and trying to discard it into the precariously overflowing inbox; the owl remained, pointedly looking between the inbox and myself, the stiff implication in its stature telling me it knew the game I was playing and that it could wait me out as it required a reply even if I didn’t want to give it.  
Hermione,  
We look forward to seeing you on Thursday evening, I do hope you’ve not forgotten, you’re awfully busy nowadays. You work too hard, dear.  
We’re sitting down around 8, after everyone has got in from work; Percy insists he can’t get there a minute before and that we’re not to start the celebrations without him. He’s bringing Audrey, his new girlfriend, so if you get the chance to talk to Ronald or the twins, do tell them to be on their best behaviour.  
Molly.  
“Oh, Merlin,” I swore under my breath, earning another glare from the self-righteous owl.  
Molly Weasley’s birthday, how had I forgotten? The owl hooted, dropping more hints, and I turned back to it settled next to my inbox. Ah, the inbox. That’s how I’d forgotten. At first glance my wire tray with precariously balanced papers didn’t look over full, sure you’d assume it’d take a few hours to hit bottom but you wouldn’t think there was too much there, not enough to swamp me; but then at first glance you wouldn’t notice the expanding charm either.  
I hastily wrote a reply to Molly, assuring her that I hadn’t forgotten (although I had) and that I would certainly pass on her messages to Ron and the twins if I saw them (which I most likely wouldn’t); the twins hardly left the shop nowadays and when they did it was to go to their homes with Angelina and Katie. Angelina Weasley née Johnson had relented and married Fred four months earlier, one of the things that Fred had promised her was a home separate from George, an idea that, after 5 years of sharing a bathroom with her husband’s twin was quite a selling point; unbeknownst to her, her husband and his twin had each bought a semi-detached house and it wasn’t unusual for her to wake up in the night to hear Morse code being tapped from one side of their bedroom wall to George and Katie’s conjoining one. Katie and George was a more recently development but still one with promise, the pair had rekindled the hints of romance from Hogwarts at Angelina’s birthday two years ago and had moved in with George when they’d relocated from the flat above the shop.  
The owl left, but not before knocking over as many papers as it could, cheeky sod, sending my inbox pile flying and leaving me on my hands and knees cleaning up the devastation. The excessive amount of parchment related to my work as a trainee solicitor in magical law, a field I both relished and regretted simultaneously. While my work interested me to no end, I genuinely loved the subject matter and truly believed that I could have a positive impact on the magical community I was still just a trainee and, as one of the most experienced and meticulous trainees at the practice, I was in constant demand. This demand had, somehow, increased over the past six months, the breakup with Ron freeing up my spare time and reducing me to a paperwork machine. I’d soon learnt, after leaving Hogwarts, that being the ‘Brightest Witch of her age’ was a double edged sword. 

-Oliver Wood- 

It was amazing how well sound carried through the Puddlemere stadium, truly amazing. Noteworthy too, if there was anything that I’d take from today it was to tone down the yelling. Not that I did too much yelling nowadays, in the past ten years I’d definitely matured from the aggressively enthusiastic 17 year old Quidditch captain I’d been at Hogwarts. Admittedly I was still aggressively enthusiastic, I just didn’t yell so much, the yelling was up to our coach, James Lewis, but he seemed to enjoy it a fair bit.  
It wasn’t James yelling now though, it was Billy Trenton the Puddlemere captain, although by the sounds of it he wasn’t intending to be captain for much longer. I sat with the rest of the team, none of us making eye contact, waiting for today’s training to get going, except there wasn’t going to be any training until the bosses and Billy quit yelling at each other. So here we were, awkwardly listening in as Billy adamantly insisted to James and Jack Abrams, Puddlemere’s manager, that actually he’d had enough of ‘getting knocked out while darting around risking his neck to get a stupid red ball through three equally stupid hoops’.  
“Bet his wife’s got something to do with it,” whispered Anne Sullivan at my side.  
Carol, Billy’s wife, was notoriously disapproving of the state her husband returned to her in game after game, Billy had a penchant for taking beautiful risks in the air but he could never fully handle the fall out afterwards. So it had come to this, just after the second match of the season and their captain was leaving them, the wife had had enough, he’d had enough and that was that. Jack didn’t like it? Jack could do one. That’s what he’d said. There’s that penchant for risks again. Maybe it was good he was quitting, nobody with a value for their life told Jack Abrams to do one and if they did then they surely were a few sickles short of a galleon.  
“-AND WHERE IN THE NAME OF MERLIN AM I GOING TO FIND ANOTHER BLEEDING CHASER AND CAPTAIN TWO MATCHES INTO THE BLOODY SEASON?” Jack was roaring, actually roaring. If I didn’t have a sense of self-preservation, I’d probably have pulled out some of that muggle snack ‘popcorn’ that Chrissie is always eating.  
The season wasn’t going brilliantly though and I could understand Jack’s apprehension at losing one of his boldest players, let alone his captain to boot. We’d won both games but the first had only been by the skin of our teeth and we’d missed out on points not getting the Snitch. See, in the Quidditch league, there were five points up for grabs per game, they add up quickly and it’s easy to get behind, you get three points for a win and two additional points for a Snitch catch. After Saturday’s match, a brutal four hour match that we won 380-140, we were fourth in the league, which wasn’t bad but nothing to get complacent about. Billy had left the pitch with a dislocated shoulder, a concussion and a disgruntled Carol; in all honesty his resignation wasn’t a surprise to anyone paying attention.  
The yelling had stopped now, a door was slammed, the slap of boots against the floor, we all tried to look busy but it was clear we’d been hanging on every word when Billy stormed into the locker room, “you guys hear all that, ‘eh?”  
We all murmured confirmations, it seemed that nobody wanted to face up to the fact that we’d been, unintentionally, eavesdropping. The bigger concern, certainly in my case, was what the bloody hell was going to happen to the team now? I felt betrayed, if I’m honest, he was our captain, our leader, he’d led me onto the pitch for five years now; I’d never played a Puddlemere game that he hadn’t led. I stood up, overwhelmed with sentiment, and pulled him into a very awkward hug that I regretted instantaneously, this hadn’t been my best move, “what the bloody hell are we going to do without you up there, ‘eh, mate?” 

-Hermione Granger-

The smell of coffee drew my eyes up from the paperwork in front of me, only one person made coffee that strong smelling in this building, she was the only other person who stayed as late as me.  
“Hermione, dear? You want a coffee?” Matilda called out from the kitchenette down the hall.  
I turned my eyes back to the paperwork, I could take it home or do it here but it needed to be done tonight and as I was more susceptible to sleep in my own home I called out my request for the caffeine she was making.  
“It’s ten o’clock again, Hermione, and it’s only Monday; how many times were you in over the weekend?” the coffee Matilda presented was strong, milky and sweet. I sipped appreciatively, willing the caffeine to take action, I tried to avoid magical energy potions but the lethargy of office work built up and caffeine was a Muggle vice I embraced truly.  
“Oh, just Saturday, I needed to work on Mr Carpenter’s Furnunculus case, the research wasn’t 100% ready for his meeting today.” I lied, I came in Sunday too. She didn’t need to know that though, I could already feel the reprimand she was building up to brewing, a strong and as scolding as the coffee in the pot.  
“Hermione, its researching spelled boils, you didn’t need to sacrifice your Saturday.” The look she was giving me clearly stated that she knew I’d been in Sunday too, darn, I’d need to start working from home.  
“It needed to be done, Matilda! Besides, I had nothing better to do.”  
“Because you spend so much time here, you’ve made this office your priority; you’re going to be stuck if you don’t put your foot down with this workload soon.”  
“That’s a bit rich, isn’t it? You’re still here at 10pm too.” My tone grew defensive, the woman in front of me worked just as hard as I did, if not more, she was in no position to chastise me.  
“Yeah, I am, so I speak from experience. Don’t make my mistakes. Have a life. Else you’ll end up 53, doing someone else’s paperwork at ten o’clock in the evening because it’s your best option too.”  
She walked away back to her office and as I watched her turn the corner I realised she was right, and it petrified me.


	2. Chapter 2

-Hermione Granger-

Thursday evening, bang on eight, I Apparated to the Burrow straight from work clutching a rejuvenated posy, stolen from the front desk of the office. Thank Merlin for rejuvenating spells. Never had I been so glad that the Weasleys weren’t huge gift givers. I approached the wonky gate I’d opened a thousand times warily, as I often did nowadays, the breakup with Ron had strained my good-natured relationship initially and we were still very much in the recovery stages. 

Percy and Audrey Apparated behind me as I lingered, I was thankful for their arrival, giving me an excuse not to enter the house alone. The living room was already overflowing with Weasleys when we arrived; Harry, Ginny and Arthur were sat with five year old Teddy, who had clearly chosen to be a red head for the occasion. Teddy was entertaining his guardians with a jumbled story from day-care, punctuated with changing facial characteristics while a thoroughly impressed Victoire sat on the opposite sofa with her heavily pregnant mother. Bill and Charlie were setting up the additional tables, reserved for family gatherings such as these. It was too late in the year to eat outside but with some determination you could fit the entire family in the kitchen, as long as you didn’t mind knocking elbows with your neighbour’s neighbour. 

Once the stragglers had finally shown up (much to the frustration of Percy who ranted admirably before receiving a sharp look from his mother), a silence settled over the Burrow that could only be associated with food. The table was laden with Molly Weasley classics that we all piled onto our plates with eager abandon, the mismatched foods were perfect together in a way I’d only seen possible at the Burrow and Hogwarts. In no other setting could beef stew and quiche be an acceptable combination. 

“Hermione, how’s work?” asked Molly as we watched the insatiable appetites begin to waver, “are you slowing down at all, dear? You do overdo it.”

Ah, I thought, time for the Spanish inquisition. A downside of dinner at the Weasley’s was the inevitable assessment of my work and love life from a well-meaning Molly. She hadn’t started setting me up with wizards yet but it was just a matter of time. Ginny had told me last week that her brothers were betting on when she’d make her move, from the attentive expression on Charlie’s face (strawberry cheesecake hovering on a fork inches from his mouth), I had an inkling that he’d put good galleons on today being the day. 

“It’s quite busy, Molly, but it’s going well; you know I enjoy it,” the lie just came out, of course I don’t enjoy it, I think I’m losing my life to that place. 

“Yes, dear, but you don’t get out much anymore now, do you?”

I’m sure my affront was written across my face but that was just rude! All cutlery had been dropped with Molly’s unintentionally (I hope it was unintentional) harsh accusation, nobody was eating anymore, now all attention was on our conversation. 

“I get out often enough, thank you, Molly,” I replied curtly, hoping to put a stop the conversation as quickly as it’d started. 

“Are you sure, dear? I was speaking to Audrey’s mother the other day and she said that Simon had moved back to England, you remember Simon? You met him at Audrey’s birthday party.”

I certainly did remember Simon, Audrey’s brother, and judging by Audrey’s face the witch agreed that a poorer match would be hard pushed to find.

“Oh no! Not Simon, Molly!” Audrey helpfully interjected, bless her, “he’s far too straight-laced and highly strung, not Hermione’s type at all!” 

The entire table looked at the witch with an expression of humorous disbelief, not quite believing the word’s that had come out of her mouth.

“It’s too easy, isn’t it?” George muttered from behind the lip of his glass to Fred who was snickering uncontrollably. 

-Oliver Wood-

It’s two days before the Harpies game and we have no bloody captain. Two days, as Rita Skeeter kindly pointed out in today’s Prophet, we have quite a task on our hands to prove our worth if we can’t keep a captain after two bloody matches. Cheers for that Rita, love. Like we needed the reminder. 

Every day this week we’ve expected the manager James to pull someone aside, casually announce it, something! But, no, we’ve had no news. Can you go into a match without a captain? Is that legal? I’m sure it isn’t; I need to break out the rule book again. Anne and Chrissie say I’m a shoe-in but I don’t even care anymore, I just want some semblance of stability in the team again. Okay, that’s a lie; I want to be captain so bad I can’t sleep. I’d settle for anything now though, even Martin Prince, the reserve they’ve pulled up to replace Billy, he’s a right entitled prick but at least we’d have a captain. 

I was making a beeline to the showers when Jack and James came into the locker room, eyeing us warily. 

“Boys, lasses, we need to have a chat,” begun James, our coach looked exhausted by the conversation already.

“A chat about the captaincy,” added Puddlemere manager Jack helpfully.

“Since Billy left us, we’ve had a fair few late night chats over this one, guys.”

“And we’ve come to the conclusion that none of you are particularly ready for the position yet.” 

The two paused, waiting for their lack of faith in us to sink in. I wasn’t sure which wise guy (probably Jack as he seemed to be playing ‘bad cop’) thought it was smart to insult an entire Quidditch team after a day’s vigorous practice but you met all sorts in this line of work. 

“That said, we need a captain, we can’t go into Saturday’s match without one, it’s against the rules.” 

Ha! I thought, momentarily distracted, I was right! 

“So, we’ve decided to appoint a temp. Oliver, a word?” 

With that the pair walked out, leaving a room full of disgruntled, insulted and muddy Quidditch players looking thoroughly brassed off, I assumed I was expected to follow.   
Chrissie was smirking, “lovely approach, Ol. Insult us all and then pick one out after admitting they’ve no other choice.” 

I nodded in agreement, mute from shock. Martin must have thought it was nerves as he thumped me on the back encouragingly, stupid sod didn’t realise I was offended. What the bloody hell do they mean ‘not ready yet’? Having no other choice, and insatiable curiosity, I followed them out the door and down towards the offices. I knew I wasn’t going to enjoy this, I wasn’t going to enjoy this conversation at all, it took everything I had to not just turn around and have the shower I so desperately wanted. Don’t yell, Oliver, I told myself, remember how sound carries. 

“So, Oliver,” said Jack when we were all seated behind his ostentation mahogany desk. “We think you should be our temp captain, what do you say?” 

I looked back at him, amazed that someone could grin so insouciantly, he really hadn’t picked up on the insult. “Well, Jack, I’m not sure why you think I’m ‘not ready yet’ to be honest, care to explain?” I tried to keep the bite out of my voice, truly, but after nine years of Puddlemere loyalty I struggled to see how I didn’t qualify and the fatigue from training was like a weight on my shoulders. 

“Now, Ol,” James began, placating, knowing my tone. “Physically and technically, you’re ready. It’s just mentally, well you’re not quite there yet, mate.”

“Not quite there mentally, James? I’ve practically been a Quidditch machine since I got my Hogwarts letter! I’ve thought of nothing but the sport for the past twenty years!” 

“Exactly, Oliver! You’re going the same way as Billy and we don’t want a repeat of that!” 

“What we’re saying is get a life, get equilibrium, and then we’ll talk about this being a permanent position. But as you are now? No. Billy left his life as an afterthought and look how buggered we are now; not you too, Wood. I like you too much to let you go the same way, boy.” 

I stared at the pair of them across the desk, James’ expression was so sincere it was hard to argue with him. Maybe he had my best interests at heart, but all I could hear was the put down. All that resonated in my mind and my aching bones was that, after nine years of putting my heart and soul into Puddlmere, I still wasn’t good enough. 

-Hermione Granger-

The meal was long finished but nobody was making the effort to move, the table discussion had, unsurprisingly, turned to Quidditch. The Chudley Cannons had started the season surprisingly well, having beaten the Tornados 300-260 but their win was already overshadowed with an embarrassing loss the weekend before, one that Charlie and Ginny were keen to not let Ron live down.

“I’m just saying, Ron, it’s nice of you to return the Cannons to their traditional gameplay! It’s what you know, losing that badly, the fans couldn’t have known what to do with themselves when you’d actually won!” teased Charlie, a devout Harpies fan. 

"I know,” said Ginny, attempting to turn the conversation to one that would make her brother less uncomfortable. “Hermione, why don’t you come to the Harpies match at the weekend, it'll get you out of that office and we can go out and celebrate afterwards."

"Celebrate what?" I asked, warily, aware of how Molly had perked up at Ginny’s suggestion. 

"My slaughtering the almighty Oliver Wood, naturally." Ginny replied, smugly, with a confidence I envied. She truly didn’t doubt her abilities to, ahem, slaughter – it was admirable. 

"Modesty isn't a Weasley trait at all, is it?" I replied, dryly, teasing sarcasm in my voice trying to joke my way out of the commitment.

"Oh, Hermione,” started Fred, “you've been a Weasley for-"

"What, 15 years?"

"And you still don't realise-"

"This is us being modest, love," George finished, the pair were impossible when they started finishing each other’s sentences. Just watching them interact was like a Muggle tennis match.

"Well, what if I don't want to spend my spare time watching a bunch of grown witches and wizards chase some balls around in the air?" I replied teasingly. While earlier in the evening I’d felt defensive I’d relaxed into a routine now, the banter between the Weasleys and myself came naturally and it felt like there’d never been any discomfort between us. 

Bill sighed dramatically, "Hermione, really, are you still pretending you don't like Quidditch?" 

"Oh, come on! How many nights in our third year did you spend watching the team practice?" added Angelina. 

"Maybe she just had a thing for Wood," teased Katie, sending a wink in my direction, but I was just thankful the flush of my cheeks had gone unnoticed.

Angelina scoffed, "Oh you're one to talk! You were mooning after him too!"

"Only till he became the fascist captain extraordinaire!" Katie retorted, the conversation was, thankfully far away from whatever interest I’d found in the Quidditch stalls in my third year.

"It did quite ruin the allure didn't it?"

Fred and George were watching the back and forth between their girlfriends with unnerved expressions on their faces, clearly this was the first either had heard of any latent Oliver Wood crushing. "Excuse us, a moment, ladies, but-"

"-are you saying-"

"- you both had a crush on-"

"-that mardy Scottish mental patient?" 

"Oh, Georgie. You say mardy, we say misunderstood," replied Katie sympathetically, with a wistful expression on her face that was tinged with humour. 

"And rugged!" Angelina added, clearly enjoying teasing Fred just as much as Katie enjoyed teasing George.

"You understood him well enough when he was getting you up at five in the morning!"

"Fascist you called him!"

"And you don't let me wake you up at 5am..."

"George Weasley, if you ever wake me up at 5am I’ll ensure you'll never be woken up again." 

\--

“Go on, Hermione, come to the match,” Ginny insisted again as we left the Burrow.

I sighed heavily, hoping the conversation had been dropped with Angelina and Katie’s distraction. “Gin, I’m just not sure-“

“No, what you’re not sure of is change. You’re used to work and no play now, you’re out of the habit of putting yourself out there. We never see you anymore. Harry never sees you! And it’s all since you put the distance in when you and Ron split-“ 

“I needed to, Gin. You don’t understand-“

“Yes! Hermione, I do! But don’t let it define your life anymore. Don’t lose your friends because you were too scared to put yourself back out there.”

I was silent, unaware of how obvious I’d been the past few months. Moved by my friend’s insistence to hold on to me but offended that she felt the need to dictate. Harry was following us at a respectful distance, a sleeping Teddy held in his arms. That he was content that Ginny would intervene on his behalf frustrated me. When had we reached the point where Harry let his girlfriend do all the talking? I knew I was being irrational but I was put on the spot and still reeling from Molly’s verbal attack earlier. 

“Come on, Hermione” her words, although aggravating, struck a defensive chord. I decided to prove her wrong, prove that I did have a ‘life’. 

“Fine,” I conceded, I’d show her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know if this chapter needs a Brit-slang glossary, all of its Google-able though, sorry if it got confusing. Let me know!


	3. Chapter 3

Oliver Wood

I bang my head against the headboard in frustration, the parchment smeared with nonsense, the quill nibs broken (which is probably for the best); writing a speech for the team tomorrow is going to take a feat of magic that would leave Merlin himself impressed. How am I supposed to go out there tomorrow knowing I’m the last resort? How do I do this?! Are they so ignorant that they thought this _wouldn’t_ affect my game? I glare at the clock, midnight, in twelve hours I’ll be sat in that locker room pulling on my gear. I’ll be giving a speech, a motivational pep-talk, trying to boost morale; but how I can I do that if I can’t motivate myself? They pretty much told me that I’m not good enough, how on earth do I turn that around?!

They told me to put more effort into having a life, like I don’t try at all. The worst bit is that I actually do.  But I’ve long since realised that the interesting girls, the ones who don’t ask on a weekly basis for me to explain the Quaffle, aren’t as interested in me as I am in them. Apparently Quidditch gets ‘boring’, I’ve no evidence to support this, only their word, which I feel was very biased (not that I am) and no girl appreciates me leaving the bed at six in the morning (or so I’m told).

So tomorrow, or today (depending on your level of pedantry), I need to lie to my team, something I abhor, to get them to dismiss Rita _bloody_ Skeeter’s defamatory remarks, bloody Portree fan, and win the much needed five points to keep us on the top half of the league table. Easy.

  
Hermione Granger

I’m not a vain witch, I value my mind over my appearance any day, but today I’m scared. Scared makes me self-conscious, which results in my being stood in front of a full-length Muggle mirror frustrated at every piece of clothing I own. Here’s my dilemma: it needs to be something casual and warm – no good will come from skimpy at a Quidditch match in November. Nothing frumpy or too reserved though, I’m putting myself out there, socialising, I don’t want to be regarded as an arse. Ginny’ll be angry if I wear Puddlemere blue, which isolates a fair amount of my winter wardrobe, so I’m going for warm, modern and no blue. Bollocks, this takes more effort than it should.

I look at the clock, eleven thirty, I could just not go; Ginny wouldn’t notice or she’ll be too concerned with her game to kick up a fuss, Harry and Teddy won’t be there either, it’d be easy. I could probably still get some work done too. Ginny’s words from Thursday still resonated in my mind though, was I really as scared as Ginny accused? Had I really let it get that bad? Yes, I suppose, I am. I’m petrified, but at the Quidditch match nobody will care about me, I won’t be the focus, everyone will be too enraptured by the game play above us; perhaps it is the ideal place to start.

Ever since Ron and I split up I’d cut things like this out. I’m not sure if it was intentional or not but things that reminded me of him hurt so much I had to let them go; Quidditch (which I do enjoy despite my protests), interaction with my closest friends, they all had thirteen years of Ron associated with them. My entire knowledge of the wizarding world had connections to Ron so I’d regressed, wrapped myself up in the areas where he had no influence: books and work. It’s funny but Ron had hated, and I mean truly despised, my job. He said I put too much of myself into it, I cared too much, I brought it home with me and I suppose, since the split, all I’ve done is prove him right.

I Apparated straight to the Harpies stadium, the Harpies’ box was fairly busy, as one of the major players in the league their freebies were few and far between and I had rarely seen them play from a box seat. I finally began to feel excited as I took my seat (next to a wizard wearing robes that flashed garishly from the home kit to the away, cheers Gin), the exclusivity of my seat and the palpable tension of the stadium was like laughing gas and soon I was grinning with the rest of the box, waiting anxiously for the teams to fly laps and the balls to be released. 

Oliver Wood

The stomping feet of the stadium above us sounds like a heartbeat, it echoes around the room, throbs like a pulse. I draw in a shaky breath and everyone looks to me, my team. “Ladies, Gents, this is not an ideal situation. It’s not ideal for us to go out today without the stability of a permanent captain. It’s not ideal for us to have to push through the negative press we’ve had this week. Our fans doubt us. Our management doubts us. I don’t know about you, but I certainly doubt myself. Individually we aren’t perfect, but as a team? We work. We fit together. We fight, we’ve always fought; it’s what Puddlemere does. In the war we set aside Quidditch to fight for what we believed in; after Voldemort’s defeat we were one of the first to regroup and reinstate the league. We have always pushed to win and be the best we can, despite the disbelievers, the haters and Rita _fucking_ Skeeter. We will go out on that pitch, we will fight, and we will win; because we are Puddlemere United and fighting to win is all we know.” I finished, breathing heavily.

“Hear, hear!” Elijah called out from behind Anne, cheerfully, and I broke out into a grin; we all started laughing, the moment that had felt awkward and new to me no longer so alien.

“Nicely put, Ol. Let’s do this!” added Wilda.

“That reminds me, don’t forget to keep an extra close eye on Wilda, Beaters,” I said to Anne and Chrissie, waiting for their agreement.

Wilda rolled her eyes, “Oliver, I don’t need-“

“Maybe not, but I’d rather not be a Chaser down because I wasn’t cautious. We don’t know how pissed the Harpies are about 1999 and if you start scoring, which you will by the way, then they _will_ get pissed off. I don’t think wands have been taken in today either, so, just be aware please everyone!”

We walk out to the pitch and start our warm up laps, the crowd is a sea of blue and green, it’s all I can see. The whistle blows, no more laps. I land in the middle of the pitch and it takes me a moment to realise that they’re waiting for me, I’m captain now, I need to shake hands.

“Oh! Sorry!” I stuttered embarrassingly to an irate Gwenog Jones.  Jones glares at me, gripping my hand tightly, trying to prove something in that moment as so many captains had before. As if a handshake would result in scaring me off enough for the Harpies to win. She stalked away, back to her team, making sure to shoot the dirtiest look she could muster to Wilda on her way. This’ll be fun.

Hermione Granger

I watched the lingering tension on the pitch, so far below me, between Jones and Wood and wondered fleetingly if there was any lingering tension from the riot in 1999; the crowds were already tense, and I wondered at what point Ginny thought me going to a Puddlemere vs Harpies game alone was a good idea. Thankfully they hadn’t taken my wand away at the gate.

“Prince – Griffiths – Workman – Griffiths – GOAL! And Puddlemere United get the Quaffle through the hoop! First goal from an ex-Harpies player too!” the crowd booed loudly as the commentator acknowledged Griffiths past team.

The game carried on as quickly as it started, as always I was reminded that Hogwarts’ Quidditch Cup was just a shadow of the league, the two were almost incomparable. While Quidditch at Hogwarts was easy to follow, relatively clean (most of the time) and never lasted too long; professional Quidditch was _fast_ , you could hardly keep up with Quaffle let alone the Bludgers and the Snitch as well.

After the first few goals, it was 40-20 to Puddlemere, the game got rougher and rougher and I watched as the shots Wood was blocking became more and more aggressive. The Puddlemere team were playing dirty, there was no way to avoid it, but given the press they’d had recently, you almost couldn’t blame them having something to prove. The Harpies met dirty with filthy fouls, mainly against Griffiths, it was clear they hadn’t forgiven her jumping ship all those years previous.

As a Bludger narrowly missed Griffiths for the fifth time I looked for Ginny, she was circling the pitch with Dotson following her, it was amazing how they could tune out the mayhem below them all to catch a glimpse of a tiny golden ball that meant the difference between winning and losing in most games.  The crowd erupted suddenly, a foul was replayed on the screens, the Harpies team had Stooged Oliver Wood. Jones and Barbary rushed him, knocking him away from the goals so that Gifford could throw the Quaffle through.

The penalties were coming quick and fast now, Puddlemere got another three – although only the Stooging penalty went in – and the Harpies got six, three of which Oliver blocked. Ninety-six minutes in and the two teams were even, everyone in the entire stadium was on the edge of their seats, the box was silent while the crowd roared and howled with unbridled excitement.

And then Ginny saw the Snitch; but so did Dotson.

The race to the Snitch was one of the most intense I’d ever seen, the entire stadium held its breath as the two rocketed down towards the pitch at breakneck speed, Ginny almost had the advantage but Dotson was taller and stretched himself out from the very tip of his broom until, and I could hardly believe it, his fingertips closed themselves around the fluttering golden ball.

Puddlemere had won.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My football team lost when I wrote part of this – this match was my way of cheering myself up! The 1999 mention is a reference to the Harpies/Puddlemere riot is canon and details can be found via HP-lexicon or the HP wiki (the lexicon version has newspaper coverage).


	4. Chapter 4

Oliver Wood

You couldn’t escape the emotions of the stadium; it was one of those things that made me love Quidditch so truly. It was basic – you either won or you lost and people were either happy or sad. Sure it wasn’t _really_ that simple, it was a heavily nuanced game that relied on tactics and daring, passion and cunning. But at the end of the day, the end of the match, you either won or you didn’t and there were days when that simplicity was something to marvel. Today wasn’t one of those days though, simply because we’d won.

It wasn’t _just_ that we’d won that made the victory so sweet (although it helped), it was the fact that we’d done it despite everything. Despite losing our captain and Chaser, we won. Despite the bad press, our lack of faith, the low expectations of our fans, the grudge between Puddlemere and the Harpies; against all that we prevailed.  

A good two thirds of the stadium was frustrated with our win, that was clear, so our celebrations on the pitch were modest. We flew our laps, paying close attention to the third that _was_ pleased (to say the least) with our win, shook hands with our opposing team (taking the high road despite their hostility to Wilda) and went on our merry way towards our locker room before celebrating properly.

“Wait up, Wood!” I heard a woman yell behind me, I turned (hoping it wasn’t a groupie), to see Ginny Weasley running after me; definitely not a groupie then.

In the years since Hogwarts I’d become better acquainted with Ginny Weasley, although seeing as my memories of her from school were just of a shy sister to my Beaters, that wasn’t saying much. We met often in Quidditch matches and the occasional charity gala or event. They were events that neither of us particularly enjoyed so we’d become inclined to chat and drink butterbeer on such occasions to pass the time, therefore we knew each other fairly well by now.

“Hi, Ginny, good game!” I greeted the witch, glad she was no longer the ‘opposition’.

“Yeah, yeah, you were lucky with that Snitch,” she replied teasingly.

I grinned, “isn’t that the point? I put all my efforts into the Quaffle only for it to become obsolete in the end, determined by a fifty-fifty chance of you getting the Snitch? Cheers for missing it, by the way.”

She just waved me off, knowing I was joking; the pair of us were used to depreciative banter post-match by now.

“I was wondering, do you want to go get a drink with me and a mate in a bit? Post-match celebration/commiseration delete where applicable, etc.”

“Yeah, sure, as long as I’m not going to be verbally assaulted by some rabid Harpies fan?” I asked with genuine concern, it’d happened before.

“Merlin, no! The complete opposite, actually, she’s nothing like that. Hermione Granger, I’m not sure if you knew her at school?”

“Oh, yeah, I met her,” I replied, trying to sound insouciant, “once or twice, at least. She seemed alright. See you outside the Harpies room?”

She agreed and we both separated, giving in to the painful need to shower. Ninety minutes of fast-paced Quidditch may feel great but it made you smell something awful, few would agree to be exposed to that for longer than necessary.

\--

“Well, everyone, we did it; despite _everything_. Congratulations!” I told my team as we filtered into the guest locker room.

“Nah, Ol, you did it. It was all in the captain-ing,” replied Wilda with a bloody wink (quite literally, the Chaser winked at me through the blood flowing into her eye from the cut on her forehead).

“Whatever,” I replied, ignoring the teasing comment, “we’ll analyse it on Monday, enjoy your weekend!”

“Oliver, why do I get the impression that you’re not teasing when you talk of ‘analysis’?”

“Anne, now I’m your captain you should know, I never tease about Quidditch,” and, as I headed towards the men’s showers, it was my turn to wink at my team.

Hermione Granger

I sat impatiently in the foyer of the Harpies stadium, humming ‘Beat Back the Bludgers, Boys, and Let the Quaffle in’ aggressively as I waited for Ginny. We’d agreed to go for a drink post-match, I say agreed, it was more like she insisted and I relented, knowing that to fight it was pointless. I wasn’t alone in the open hall, but there were few people who would be willing to chatter with me or I them. The main occupants to the area, that was only accessible to those who had box seats, were the dreaded WAGs (or wives and girlfriends) and the conversation was a tad too otiose for my liking.

It was a scene I was familiar with, having encountered similar witches when I was dating Ron. There was a sense of entitlement in the room, the women who joined me were ‘with the team’, see, and that meant they were privy to gossip mere witches like myself weren’t. In situations like these they often liked to spout the dirty details as loud as possible, hoping to get some poor witch to take the bait, just so they could prove how much better they were.

“-Well, it’s a surprise they won at all, really,” said the first of three women in Puddlemere blue, they were gathered together impatiently looking in, what I assumed was, the direction of the locker rooms.  

“Complete luck, they wouldn’t have managed it against a proper team,” replied her friend. It always frustrated me that the women and men who partnered with the players would always behave so viciously behind the scenes. It was a lack of support that I struggled to comprehend.

“Yes! I keep telling Bennie, get out while you can, the Wasps are doing well, he needs to jump ship.”

“Yes, especially with Oliver now in charge,” said the leader, clearly disapproving of the temporary captain.

“Well, ‘ _in charge’_? He’s only temporary,” the scorn in the woman’s voice was clear – she must have thought her ‘Bennie’ was better suited to the role.

“I heard he paid off Jack to get him the captain role.” Ah, of course, Oliver couldn’t have gained the position from his own merit.

“Really? Rita said in the Prophet that he’d paid Billy’s wife to kick off and get Billy to leave so he could move in on the spot.” I bristled unwillingly at this, feeling defensive towards the wizard who I hadn’t seen in years, other than flying around a pitch. It was unfair that they were slandering wildly the new captain of the Puddlemere team, temporary or not. He was supposed to be leading their partners, supporting them, working with them to produce a better team and all they could do was slag him off.

“Well that didn’t work out for him, did it? He’s only temporary.”

“He must be proper narked about that, nine years on the team and they still don’t want him to be captain!” The glee in the witch’s voice was unmistakable.

“ _I_ heard it was because he can’t hold down a relationship – doesn’t look good for the image, see. Teams want a family man to lead, that’s why everyone loved Billy so much.” I wondered fleetingly if Billy had been so highly praised a week ago when he was still captain.

“Didn’t he turn down Rita’s niece?”

“Yes, the git, she’s a lovely girl. Apparently he said he wanted a girl that was more ‘intelligent’!”

“ _Intelligent_ , him?!” she scoffed. “He’d be lucky!”

“What intelligent girl is going to be interested in the likes of him?!”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I heard myself say, against my better judgement, “he’s not that bad to look at, that’s for sure, I can think of a fair few intelligent girls who wouldn’t say no _.” Oh, Hermione_ , I scolded myself, _what_ are _you doing?_

“Oh and you’d know intelligent girls, would you? Who are you, silly witch? Hanging around, hoping to get a glimpse of a proper Quidditch player? I’m surprised they let you in.”

“Hermione Granger, brightest witch of her age, don’t you know?” said Oliver Wood, just as I was about to respond. “How’re you doing Charlotte?”

“Oliver! Lovely job out there, you’re such a good captain! I _do_ hope they make it permanent.”

He smiled indulgently, as if fully aware of how insincere her words were, “I’m sure. Come on, Granger, Weasley’s waiting.”

Oliver Wood

Did I remember Hermione Granger? Ginny’d asked. I didn’t see how it could ever be possible to forget the girl. She’d been a strange girl when I’d met her, understated, but proud. Undeniably smart, frightfully so, it had been intimidating that first time I’d met her; she was brash in her explanation, I thought she must have been stuck up but realised soon after that it was probably nerves. Potter and the twins had nothing but nice things to say about her, yes, she was bossy at times but her intelligence was vast and her capacity for kindness even greater. Since that first time I’d met her we hadn’t interacted all that much, a passing ‘hello’ in the corridors of Hogwarts. We’d seen each other during the Battle of Hogwarts too, but that hadn’t really been the place for people to catch up. In the years after the war I’d occasionally seen her around at Quidditch matches, she’d been dating Ronald Weasley but I hadn’t known him well and had always been reluctant to intrude.

When I heard her defending me, a wizard she hadn’t properly spoken to in ten years, to that vicious cow Charlotte I couldn’t help but grin. She was how I remembered her, naturally, and although she was verbally sparring with the woman I was struck again by her capacity for kindness; it had been so long since we’d last met and yet she defended me without hesitation.

“Oh and you’d know intelligent girls, would you? Who are you, silly witch? Hanging around, hoping to get a glimpse of a proper Quidditch player? I’m surprised they let you in.” I cringed at the sour witch’s bitter words. How could someone so seemingly happy with her lot be so cruel to a complete stranger? I decided to intercede before things got out of hand, sure that Hermione had bitten off more than she could chew and hoping to defuse the situation.

“Hermione Granger, brightest witch of her age, don’t you know?” I said cheerfully, stepping forward away from the locker room door. The witches clearly hadn’t been aware of my entrance, too distracted with ganging up on Granger. “How’re you doing Charlotte?” I asked, my voice deceptively sweet.

“Oliver! Lovely job out there, you’re such a good captain! I do hope they make it permanent,” Charlotte replied and I cringed. _Who, in the name of Merlin, do you think you’re kidding, woman?_

I put on a brave smile, sick of the niceties, “I’m sure. Come on, Granger, Weasley’s waiting.”

I turned to Hermione then, smiling more openly, and took her hand leading her back towards Ginny.

“Cheers for that, think I was out of my depth,” she admitted quietly, smiling up at me as we walked away. 

“No problem,” I replied, grinning, she’d defended me so it was only right that I’d done the same for her. Besides, she thought I was good looking. 


	5. Chapter 5

Hermione Granger

When we’d arrived at the pub I really thought it would just be for a few drinks, I didn’t intend to get plastered. I really, really didn’t. I’m not a heavy drinker, I _know_ my limits! Yet lo and behold, here I am! Nine in the morning, the sun’s shining through onto the bathroom tile, the birds are sounding smug and chipper and the contents of my stomach are being flushed down the toilet as I attempt to drag myself up from the floor into a position less humiliating.

Just standing up is a trial and soon I’m leaning on the sink, head lowered, daring myself to glance up and face the mirror and whatever state I’m in. By now I have no delusions that it’s not pretty. I underestimated Ginny’s tolerance for firewhiskey, that’s for sure; I bet Molly doesn’t know she puts it away like that. 

The first thing I notice is how pale I am, ashen doesn’t begin to cover it and the sheen of sweat across my brow does little to improve my pallor. My hair is a haystack, but that’s not unusual, I feel inappropriately proud that there’s no sick matted into the mess of it but just the mere thought of vomit makes my stomach lurch dangerously again.

“Ah, you’re up then Hermione?” a voice says from the open bathroom door.

I turned abruptly, battling a new wave of dizzying nausea, to see Oliver propping himself up against the doorframe, asprin and a glass of water proffered before him. My face flushed red as I accepted with embarrassment, and I couldn’t decide if the shade was better or worse than the sickly gaunt look of moments before.

“Did? Um…” I asked reluctantly, not quite sure what I wanted to ask but hoping he would have an answer anyway.

“No,” he replied, shooting me a lopsided smile that would have had me melting if I wasn’t already mortified. “I kipped on the sofa; besides, you were propping up the loo half the night anyway. No good to me like that,” and he winked, clearly he was suffering a lot less than me. He was still concerned though, he eyed the asprin with a look of trepidation that only a pureblood could manage in the face of medicine, “I couldn’t find any hangover potion so I scrounged up a Muggle remedy, is that okay? You can mix the two if you’ve got some.”

“Oh, I don’t have any. I don’t tend to keep any around the house, it just goes off before I use it.”

“Not a heavy drinker then?” he asked with amusement.

“You hadn’t come to that conclusion already, Oliver?” I replied, bashfully.

“I thought I might have caught you on an off-day, it happens. I feel bad now though, Ginny told me this was a regular thing for you…”

“Oh did she?” I tried to be annoyed with Ginny but I couldn’t find the energy. “I suppose she would, ruddy sneaky girl.”

“Why’s that?” he asked, bemused by my dark tone.

“She has… a scheme,” I replied, suddenly uncomfortable with the turn of the conversation; I’d clearly revealed too much.

“A scheme?”

“Yes, she thinks she can get me out more, get me socialising, get me a boyfriend and all my problems will go away.”

“She said that did she?” he sounded amused.

“Yes, while you were at the bar, buying the first round, sneaky git.”

“she thinks getting you bladdered is going to get you a boyfriend? I’m not being mean, love, but holding a girl’s hair back while she empties her guts isn’t the most romantic of situations.”

I stopped, shocked, forgetting my annoyance towards Ginny, “you held my hair back?”

“Yes, of course,” he smiled then, almost indulgently at me. “Well I couldn’t not, could I? All that lovely hair of yours, you’d have got yourself in a right state.” I blushed, unable to help myself. Curse my bloody (lovely!!) hair. “So, tell me more about this scheme of hers, should I be worried?”

I thought back to the night before, the pub Oliver and Ginny had chosen was quiet and surprisingly dim, not the kind of place you expected Quidditch players to haunt (but that was most likely the exact reason they preferred it). The Jealous Duck was as strange as its name; with low ceilings, beams and Muggle pub furnishings I originally assumed it was your typical quaint English public house. I was very, very wrong. There were tiny tells that revealed it as Magic, small inconsistencies, that you had to look for to realise. The booths were all much larger than they appeared, the ceilings much more accommodating than their low height suggested and the books that lined the shelves were magical copies of Penguin Classics that changed as you read their spines (Brighton Rock became Jude the Obscure and then Oliver Twist in one inspection).

We sat in a corner booth, far from the bar, that provided a fairly broad view of the pub while still retaining a degree of privacy. I looked to Ginny who’d had a faint smile on her face as she took in the strange room, “are you up to something, Gin?”

She looked shocked, but a flush coloured her cheeks and neck slightly (as was the Weasley way), “Up to something? Don’t know what you mean, Hermione”. She sounded suspiciously like one of the twins, and I latched on to this suspicious with both hands.

“You didn’t tell me we’d be getting drinks with Oliver Wood…”

“Well I didn’t know you knew him,” she replied, refusing the meet my eyes now, definitely up to something.

“Yes, you did, we were talking about him the other night at your Mother’s” nice try, Weasley, but you can’t wriggle out of this one so easily!

“Were we?” her cheeks flushed even more, “oh I suppose we were, I must’ve forgot… What with all the Quidditch pressure.” Ha! Idiot girl! I had her now!

“Ginny Weasley, you have never been nervous about a Harpies match in your life”, I let disbelief colour my voice and watched as her shoulders slumped in resignation and she threw a quick glance over to Oliver, still stood at the bar waiting to be served.

“Fine! I just remembered saying how you got on so well in third year so I thought I’d invite him along! Is that a crime?”

“Yes!” I declared, quite shrilly actually. “Seeing as you didn’t listen to me at all! We hardly spoke! He thought I was a bossy know-it-all thirteen year old! Merlin, I _was_ a bossy know-it-all thirteen year old!”

“Well, now it’s your chance to prove him otherwise, isn’t it?”

“Argh! Ginny!” I cried, frustrated and embarrassed that my friend had led me so easily into this situation that I was nowhere near prepared for.

I looked at Oliver in the doorway, so casual, so carefree. Wishing I could pull of his easy insouciance I said, “oh, you know her,” ever-so casually. “She’s a Weasley, she wouldn’t be related to Fred and George if she wasn’t always plotting and scheming.”

Oliver Wood

It had all started so well, I thought to myself with a sigh, rearranging my legs on the bathroom tile before they got too numb; it had all started so well. I’d been so confident, so full to the brim with cocky arrogance; I just had to go and blow it. I wasn’t ‘bad to look at’, well that could only be taken as a compliment, and she ‘could think of a few intelligent girls who wouldn’t say no’? My chest still fluttered at the memory of her words. Hermione Granger was attracted to me. She had to be. She’d practically said it herself! And to complete strangers! My ego was soaring but, like Icarus, by the end of the evening my pride would soon spiral down to the sea where it would drown spectacularly.

It was Ginny Weasley’s fault.

The drunker we got, the more we laughed, if there’s one thing I remember about last night (unfortunately it’s not just the one thing) it was how happy we were, the three of us, roaring with mirth and jubilation. Spilling out of our booth, our infectious joviality ready to be shared with the pub and it’s other (admittedly less enthusiastic) patrons.

Ginny’s bright hair spilled over my shoulder as she leant in, smelling richly of cardamom and grapefruit, “she likes you, you know”, she giggled wetly into my ear, her breath warm and heavy with firewhiskey.

I tried not to look too eager, but it was involuntary, I’d be lying if I said her words didn’t send shivers of delight through me instantly. “Yeah?” I asked, nervously, more like a schoolboy than my twenty-something self.

She smiled, openly and contagiously and I drunkenly grinned back, meeting her dancing eyes with unabashed curiosity. “Yeah, Oliver. She likes you. And she needs some _fun_ , y’know? It’s been so long since she’s just had some _fun_!” her voice erupted with life as she emphasised the word and Ginny’s earnest assurances were undeniable. “My brother, oh Ron, he didn’t _get_ her, y’know? It takes a special someone to _get_ Hermione, do you _get_ Hermione, Oliver?”  I opened my mouth, but she never gave me chance to answer. “Never mind, Oliver, you’ll learn to, you have to learn to understand Hermione, she’s a very complex girl, see? She’s not your normal Quidditch tagalong, she’s smart! She’s so smart! The brain on the girl! You don’t take that for granted.” Her voice and face grew serious and stern now, comically so, I struggled to keep my face straight as Ginny raised a finger between us and pointed it at me in mock severity; “don’t you take that girl for granted, Oliver Wood. Or else.”

I patted my inebriated friend on the cheek lightly, her face warm and flushed from the heat of the room and the alcohol in her blood, “I wouldn’t dare, Gin.”

My answer must have satisfied her as she dropped the subject after that and Hermione soon returned to the table with another round. She was less guarded in this state, I noticed. Her smile was more open, her laugh easier and more ready. Her hair was tangled from the wind of the Quidditch stadium and, like Ginny, her cheeks were flushed but she’d never looked more beautiful to me. She’d never looked more beautiful to me? Oh, what an idiot I am, I hardly know the woman. I’ve hardly seen her in the years since Hogwarts and here I ramble like a besotted teen, blind in lust, hasty in his affections.

“So, Oliver,” Hermione begun, leaning across the table towards me with unbridled enthusiasm. “What’s a lovely, hunky Quidditch player like you doing hanging with a silly legal grunt like me?”

I laughed, shocked at her forwardness, “well, Hermione. I’m having a drink, clearly,” I motioned to the drained glasses of firewhiskey between us. “I’m propping up your _very_ intoxicated friend and I’m enjoying the beautiful company,” I nodded to her, thrilled by the way she ducked her head in modesty.

We’d flirted shamelessly after that, an unspoken acknowledgement of each other’s latent feelings that only emerged more and more as the alcohol continued to flow freely. By the time Ginny left us, staggering towards the Floo with loud assurances that she could make her way home perfectly well without us, neither Hermione nor I were putting any efforts into being covert about our feelings anymore. We were unabashed,  forthright, flirting brazenly; now I can only groan and blush at the mortifying memories rattling around my head, not stifled by the haze of a hangover, but at the time I thought I was the epitome of suave; Merlin help my soul. 

We arrived back at her flat and nearly fell over in the after-effects of Apparition, on reflection we were certainly not in a fit state to travel. I pressed her firmly against the wooden door and leant in to kiss her, her eyes were wide with growing sobriety but fluttered shut quickly as I brushed my lips against hers, the taste of Ogden’s finest still lingering on her soft mouth.  My hand raised to her hair as she pressed against me harder, raising herself up into the kiss and pressing a hand to my chest with hesitance, as if unsure of where to place it. “Hermione,” I muttered against the lips moving against mine, eager to consume her mouth as readily as the firewhiskey before it.

“Oh, no,” she moaned and I pulled back, confused by her objection. “Oh, fuck,” she muttered and pushed me away completely, I complied reluctantly as she turned from me, trying to find her key.

“What’s wrong, Hermione?” I asked, muddled by her sudden change in behaviour.

“Oh, fuck,” she muttered again, throwing herself through the door of her flat, making a beeline for the loo. Ah. The sound of heaving and the contents of her stomach hitting the bowl rung called out like a beacon. I rolled up my sleeves, feeling considerably more sobered by the retching, and followed her to find her hunched over the toilet, brow glistening and smiled as she groaned.

“I’m here, Hermione,” I knelt next to her, gathering her mass of hair in my hands so I could hold it back and rubbed her back encouragingly. “Let it out.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

-Hermione Granger-

“Oh, shit,” I groaned, for the fifth time; I glanced back to the Daily Prophet lying open on the kitchen table and groaned again, it didn’t get any better the more you looked at it. In fact, I couldn’t quite possibly conceive how it could get any worse, but I’m sure I’d manage it.

It’s safe to say that, by the time Oliver (quite wisely) left, my hangover hadn’t really abated, I was in a foul mood (having slept draped over the loo) and growing more and more aware of the workload I’d been avoiding the day before. Oliver had left and, after a strong coffee, I’d pulled a stack of paperwork towards me with the intention of ploughing through till lunch. Then the Prophet had arrived.

**QUIDDITCH KEEPER SCORES**

_Well, well, well, loyal Prophet readers! In the latest piece of gossip we find ourselves with the possibility of a new budding romance! Brightest witch of her age, Hermione Granger may be but she sure is a sucker for a Keeper! Yes, ladies, we find ourselves watching in awe as yet another Quidditch player falls for Miss Granger's unladylike wiles as she jumps Broomstick yet again!_

_First there was poor, poor Viktor Krum, a lovely lad, just trying to get by in a corrupt tournament full of lies, Death Eaters and Ministry malfunctions. Granger strung Krum along for almost a full year before he got the message that she was toying with him, beast of a girl that she is; and let us not forget, dear readers, that while she was toying with the affections of the Bulgarian Beauty she had the boy who lived, Hogwarts Seeker and soon to be Gryffindor Quidditch Captain as a bit on the side!_

_In later years at Hogwarts she was romantically affiliated with Cormac McLaggen, reserve Keeper for Gryffindor, but his inability to get on the first team lead to him being shafted for a different player who we were certain she would Keep! But no! Poor Ronald Weasley wasn't good enough for our vicious heartbreaker either! The Chudley Cannons Keeper and Miss Granger split at the beginning of the year and, while no reason was provided for the press, we can only assume that Granger was motivated by the recurring poor results that the Cannons have had these past few seasons, despite their initial return to success in 1999._

_Now though Miss Granger has set her sights higher, poor Oliver Wood, hunk that he is, has been fighting the ladies off since joining Puddlemere's reserve team in 1994 but now the black widow of the Quidditching WAGs is paying an interest how long will he last? The two were spotted after the Harpies - Puddlemere game (in which Puddlemere thrashed those vicious man hating Harpies), was Granger congratulating her Keeper friend after Mrs Potter's team accepted their defeat so ungracefully? Whatever the pair were doing, they were awfully close when they Apparated away together to a place that was surely more private than a Quidditch locker room!_

Shitting fuck, it just didn’t get any better, did it? The worst part was that Rita almost had a point, I almost let her get to me and she almost wormed her way into my mind with her vicious poison. Maybe I did have a type? Maybe there _was_ a recurring theme? Maybe I _did_ have a problem?

I closed my eyes, I couldn’t work like this, I was too…. Haywire. None of it made sense now, all I could hear in my mind was Rita’s words, what if Oliver believed them? Merlin, _I_ believed them, why wouldn’t he? I needed to talk to him, I couldn’t let this just go, he couldn’t just read it and assume the worst about me.

-Oliver Wood-

My day was going amazingly, despite the hangover. Quidditch practice was phenomenal, the win had really raised the spirits of the team and their confidence in my captain abilities. The managers were happy, the coaches were happy (I honestly think that James Lewis cried) and it seemed like nothing could go wrong, until Hermione showed up. Her face was a thunderstorm, rage coloured her cheeks despite the gaunt pallor of her extreme hangover, tears threatened to fall from her eyes and clenched between her small hands was the Daily Prophet.

I intercepted her march towards me with a wide and (if I do say so myself) charming smile, Hermione Granger’s bad mood couldn’t ruin my day. Well, I didn’t think it could.

“Have you seen what that _witch_ has written?” she demanded of me as soon as I was in front of her. My face must have been puzzled as, no sooner than she’d asked, a copy of the prophet was thrust into my arms so that I could read the Skeeter article emblazoned across the open page. _Bollocks_.

“Oh, Hermione,” I said, pulling her into my arms. I began to read the article while she clutched me close, the poor girl as hungover as myself confronted with that? No wonder she was upset. I idly noticed that she’d showered since I’d left that morning, her hair smelled of a light citrus shampoo, clean and not ostentatious, and it was a comfort. “Blimey, she hates you, doesn’t she?” I said, probably not the most helpful reaction, I know, but I was flawed by how _bitterly_ Skeeter had attacked her. 

She laughed though, shaking with mirth in my arms, making me grin against the hair still pressed against my face. “Oh, that’s an understatement,” she replied, giggling now. I pulled away and sighed, taking in her face, tears stained her cheeks and her eyes were red but she seemed happier now.

“I need to get back to practice, Hermione. Go sit in the stands? Wait for me?” I asked hopefully, wanting to spend more time with her now she’d visited me at practice (something that made me giddier than I felt comfortable admitting). Once I was certain she’d stick about I made my way back over to the team, who were all smirking at me, the bastards.

\--

One look at Jack Abrams’ face as he burst into the men’s changing room left no room for doubt that he’d seen the Skeeter article, wonderful. “Oliver, _what_ is this?” he asked, waving a well-read copy of the Prophet in my face.

“I believe it’s the Daily Prophet, sir,” I replied, unable to restrain the sarcastic bite.

“Don’t play silly buggers with me, boy. Why is Skeeter reporting that you’re dating the brightest witch of our age?” he asked, his voice was low but there was a gleam to his eye that suggested he was much happier with the article than he was letting on.

I shrugged lightly and tried to keep my voice as blasé as possible, “she must’ve seen Ginny and I in the pub with her after the game.”

“Ginny Weasley?” he asked, latching on to the name. “Potter’s girl?” I nodded although sighing internally; trust him to not recognise her name for her own merit on the Quidditch pitch. “You are flying in high circles, aren’t you, Oliver. Keep it up with Granger, it looks good for us; try and shake the Weasley girl though, last thing we need is a Harpies sympathetic captain.”

“Don’t you mean temporary captain, sir?” I asked feeling conflicted, while I hated the ‘temporary’ addendum to my job, his attitude towards Hermione and Ginny was grating me.

Jack winked at me, honest to Merlin the man _winked_ , “not with Hermione Granger on your arm I don’t.”

\--

I half hoped Hermione would have given up and left; if I stayed in the shower long enough then this whole day would pass, my hangover (which was now in full swing) would abate and the entire mess would be forgotten about (probably). Instead she was sat on the changing room bench, legs crossed at her ankles and leaning back on the palms of her hands watching me emerge with a forthright expression on her face. Well, until she realised I was only wearing a towel.

I blushed and she blushed, there were a few moments of awkward mumbling on my behalf while she shielded her eyes and apologised profusely. I summoned a shirt and, by the time I was a little less distracting (something my subconscious was proudly packing away for a less awkward moment), she’d become preoccupied in studying the grain of the wooden bench, picking at it with her nails. I watched as she pressed her nail harder, trying to make the wood yield and almost breaking her thumb nail in the effort.

“I thought you’d have left,” I said, desperate to break the uncomfortable silence that had settled after our shared embarrassment abated.

“Is that why you took so long?” she asked; her voice was small, she was clearly still embarrassed, but unwavering.

I blushed (again) and stuttered (again, _Merlin_ , what was she doing to me?) but she just laughed lightly at my reaction. “So, er, my manager saw the article,” I told her half-heartedly, hoping she wouldn’t hear me and we could all go on our merry way without having this conversation.

“Oh?” she asked with concern lighting up her face. “I am sorry, Oliver. Did he bollock you? I can put him straight if you like…” _Oh, bless her_ ; I thought with a surge of fondness, she thought I was avoiding the subject because I had already been through the ringer, not because I was putting it off.

“No, he was actually quite happy with it-“

“What?” she asked, her voice low, it would appear that she cottoned on quickly – I’d have to remember that one.

“-Seemed to think it was good publicity-“

“ _What?!”_ bloody hell, she could yell too.

“-He suggested that if I kept it up I’d be Captain permanen- argh!” I should have seen the slap coming in all honesty. Where I’d been avoiding her gaze before, now I met her darkened gaze; her eyes were blazing with barely contained anger as she shook her right hand, trying to expel the sting. My cheek was smarting a fair bit too, actually, but it served me right as I knew all too well.

“You corrected him though, didn’t you, Oliver?” she asked and, Merlin, I nearly said ‘yes’ just to appease her thunderous expression. Fortunately for my long-term health the slap still stung and had somewhat awoken my wits enough to recognise that it wouldn’t be wise.

“I didn’t really get the chance, Hermione,” I told her, cringing at how pathetic I sounded and the cry of exasperation that escaped her.

“ _How_ , Oliver? How do you not get the chance to say ‘actually, boss, I’m not shacking up with the witch Rita Skeeter is determined to have everyone write off as a promiscuous harlot’?” she ranted, her voice speeding up in her anger.

“I think she’s aiming for ‘wench’ more than ‘harlot’ actually-Oi!” unlike the palm of her hand I managed to catch the boot she slung at me. “Quidditch reflexes, love. Don’t throw boots at a professional Keeper, yeah?” I smirked when she had the decency to appear rather abashed.

“Sorry. I’m sorry, Oliver. I just, urgh! How do I land myself in these situations?” she asked, deflated enough that I was no longer scared of putting my arms around her.

“Haven’t you noticed, love? You’ve got a penchant for trouble.” I placed my chin on her head lightly and begun rocking the two of us, dancing carelessly. Eventually she gave in, laughing lightly and putting her arms around my waist. “Do you want me to track down Jack and put him right?” I mumbled into her hair.

She sighed and replied hesitantly, “I’m not sure. I want you to get Captaincy, obviously. I don’t know, Oliver, was there the possibility of truth in it?”

I pulled my face back, trying to meet her eyes, but she kept them purposely averted, “the article?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she muttered so quietly that if I hadn’t been so close I wouldn’t have heard her.

I lowered my face to hers and brushed my lips against hers, the pair of us still swaying to no beat in particular. Tentatively she responded, kissing me lightly; it wasn’t passionate or desperate, just a feather-light curiosity between the two of us. I pulled away; her eyes were still closed as she settled her face back into the crook of my neck and I pressed another kiss into her hair before replying, “I don’t know, Hermione. You tell me.”

 

* * *

 

A.N. I’m so iffy about the first half of this, it feels quick. Sorry for the delay, it was due a week or so ago but I got stuck in hospital for a week and it threw me off schedule. If you’re Blackinnon inclined I’ve got a multi-chapter in progress (which I really prefer to this, I’m struggling to find motivation with this one in all honesty) and my Blackinnon Secret Santa entry is also uploaded which was really fun to write. ‘Cottoned on’ is slang for understanding something – I’m not sure if I need to explain any other Brit slang, do give me a yell if you’re stumped over anything. 


	7. Chapter 7

-Hermione Granger-  
I returned home, no longer angry but deflated and confused. It was definitely time to crack on with the paper work, I’d done a truly marvellous job of avoiding it for another day but the Ministry waits for no witch, except they did, but I honestly felt they did far too much waiting around without my contributions. So, with a begrudging commitment to the scrolls of work I knew awaited me on the kitchen table, I opened the door making a bee line to the electric kettle and thus not noticing the irate Weasley awaiting me. 

"It's all just a game to you, isn't it?" He said, he must’ve been waiting until my back was turned and I rummaged for milk in the fridge. I banged my head in surprise and turned so quickly I almost lost my balance.

"What on earth are you doing here, Ron?" I tried to keep my anger in check, I'd probably had too many outbursts today. 

"It's all just a game to you: Quidditch players, boys.” He faltered, “love". He looked hurt, his eyes were red, his ears flushed, I had no idea how long he’d been sat there waiting on me and dwelling in the lies swirling in his head.

"Ron, don't be silly-"

"Silly?!" He roared, "silly, Hermione? I have never been so serious in my life. Tell me, did I _ever_ mean something to you or did you just throw me aside when the possibility of Wood arose?"

I smirked involuntarily but made my voice calm and soft before I replied, knowing Ron’s penchant for irrationality, "Ron, listen to yourself, don't be an idiot. We weren't working-"

"Because,” he said loudly, almost yelling at me, choking on his emotions, “you were looking for something better!" 

I couldn’t help it, I snapped, "I wasn't happy anymore! You weren't making me happy! _I_ wasn't making me happy! I just needed to stop and try and rediscover what made me tick!" This had been exactly the reason we didn’t work towards the end, his irrationality and jealousy would drive me up the wall and I would snap, one day I’d woken up scared that I’d become bitter, angry and unloved if I let this charade continue. That was the day I decided to break my best friend’s heart, unsurprisingly he hadn’t forgiven me yet.

"Oh and you're happy now?" he asked me mockingly, scoffing with bitter derision. "Coming around every Sunday, ‘oh works _soo_ hard, oh everyone's _so_ mean to me’” he imitated my voice, high strung and shrill. “But never actually fucking acting on it, Hermione! You like the drama, you like being pushed around, you search out people like me and Harry and Krum and Wood and you parade it about hoping for the drama so you can get the sympathy because poor little Hermione’s life is so hard!"   
  
He might as well have slapped me. A rational part of my mind reminded me that he was hurt and angry and ever so Ron, but, quite unfortunately, I was feeling particularly irrational too.   
“I am _invited_ , Ronald! Your mother, your father, your brothers and sister invite me! They like me, they don’t feel obligated, they don’t feel uncomfortable; that’s just _you_! And don’t you dare think of bringing Harry into this, we have been through _so_ much together, how dare you, how fucking _dare_ you think that about him and I! He’s like my brother, you know this, and we’ve done all this before! It’s old Ronald, your petty little jealousy over nothing got dull very quickly the first time around and seeing as he’s happily married to your sister I’d think there’s no grounds to start that crap up again, yeah?” my tirade finished and I was breathing heavily, hair in my face and stood with my fist grinding against the table between us. He was wise enough to look intimidated but disgust still coloured his eyes, he didn’t believe me. He’d chosen the poison of Rita Skeeter over his friend again, I’d never been so disappointed but I couldn’t say I was surprised. This was almost a routine between us.

He narrowed his eyes at me and, like a bull to a red cloth, I knew I’d just incensed him more. “You don’t deny that you like the drama though? All the way through school, the mountain troll, that was just the tip of the iceberg, and you just had to go find the basilisk on your own-“

“I went to research! I didn’t go looking for it! I was coming back to you-“

“Was it some inferiority complex, Hermione? Did you feel inadequate compared to me and Harry? Because we were blokes? Or perhaps because you were a mugg-“

“Don’t you dare, Ronald! Don’t you dare say that I wanted all this because of my pathetic little Muggleborn upbringing! You were my friends, I wanted to help and you didn’t always make it particularly easy!”

He realised what he’d been about to say then, that he’d almost brought it down to my blood status and finally, he looked ashamed and somewhat deflated.  

“Look, Hermione, I think it’s probably for the best if you don’t come to the Burrow tonight, or for a while really-“

“I’m invited, Ron-“

“I know that, but it’s you or me and they’re my family, they’ll choose me. This’ll die down soon, you’ll get over your latest,” he scowled his face in disgust. “Infatuation and we’ll all get over it and carry on as we were. Just don’t drag my family down with your indecisive forays with your latest _Keeper_.” His voice was low and venomous, I couldn’t decide if I was more offended by his abrasive hatred, his opinions on my ‘love life’ or if I was just washed out with the effort of the past two days.

And he was right, as much as it pained me. If they were made to choose, not that they should ever be asked, his family would choose him. I didn’t have the right to pose the question to them anyway. I laughed when I realised, not a full week ago, Molly Weasley had been pressuring me to get some romance in my life, I’m sure she didn’t think it would be at the expense of our friendship. I began to cry, absentmindedly noting that Ron had left, _typical_ , I thought dryly. As soon as the waterworks started Ron was off like a shot, heaven forbid I should be weak in front of my friend.  

\--

-Ginny Weasley-  
After dropping Teddy off at Bill’s we went to Mum and Dad’s for tea, the fact that a romantic evening for Harry and I had become a trip to the Burrow was relatively scary and, from the befuddled expression on Harry’s face I could tell he’d come to the same epiphany too – we really were going to have to act on this one. With that worrying thought in mind we made our way up the path hand in hand, sharing small smiles, Harry still afraid to be overly affectionate in the vicinity of my mother; wise boy, that one.

Kisses met us at the door, mainly from Fred and George who’d seen Mum kiss Katie on the cheek and were now mimicking it with disturbing gusto; Mum was frowning but not annoyed enough to stop them and so, after Harry’s fourth lingering and sloppy kiss on the cheek from George I yanked him over to the kitchen table. “Cheers,” he muttered wiping his cheek and then glasses from my twin’s soppy affection.

“Idiots,” I told him fondly. “Complete idiots.”

“Ah, but you love us Ginevra,” replied Fred as he pulled a seat out for Angelina opposite us.

 “Is this it then?” asked Harry, referring to the number sat around the table. Quite luckily Mum’s birthday had been an anomaly, we only all showed up on Birthdays and Christmas during the winter months, otherwise it usually ended up too crowded.

“Yes,” said mum indulgently, ever happy to be surrounded by family. “Bill and Fleur are coming next week and Percy and Audrey were working late,” she explained, pointedly ignoring the twins nudging each other.

“Ron’s on his way!” called Dad from the fireplace, “and Hermione isn’t coming.”

I looked to Harry confused, “says who?” I called back to Dad.

“Ron,” he replied, “said he’d explain later and to not start without him.”

“Typical,” replied Fred.

“All he thinks of is his stomach,” added George nodding in agreement with his twin.

“What about our stomachs?”

“Selfish git,” muttered George darkly. The exchange went ignored by the rest of us, especially Katie and Angelina who were beyond used to it.

“Anyway!” announced Fred, “nice match, Gin.”

“Shame you couldn’t annihilate Oliver,” added Katie with a teasing smile.

“Speaking of which, have you seen today’s Prophet?” asked George.

“Has anyone _not_ seen it? It’s a bloody piss take,” said Angelina. “Sorry, Molly,” she added upon seeing Mum’s face, smart girl.

Mum sighed, “they do lay into Hermione.”

Dad took his seat at the head of the table, “Rita Skeeter’s never been particularly nice to Hermione.”

“ _Nice_ , Dad?” scoffed George. “She ripped her a new one! Sorry Mum…”

I eyed Mum’s face she was clearly ready to yell at George. “The thing is, it wasn’t like that at all,” I told them patiently, hoping to distract Mum’s anger.

“You were there?” she asked in surprise, bingo.

Harry cleared his throat and said wryly, “just because Rita didn’t report it Molly…”

She blushed slightly, “doesn’t mean it’s not true, yes Harry, I suppose you’re right.”

The shared looks of disbelief amongst my father and brothers made me wish I’d brought a camera, none of us would have _dared_ correct Mum but Harry can do it and just get a blush in response? I should warn Harry away from Fred and George just in case they Polyjuice him for the soul privilege of correcting mum.

It was at that moment that Ron chose to make his grand entrance, happy smile plastered over his face, giving Fred and George cause to share suspicious looks. “Well, what are we all talking about?” he asked as he took the remaining seat on my right, pouring himself a butterbeer.

“Bloody Rita Skeeter,” said Fred, the three words explanation enough in our family.

“Oh, yeah, the thing with Hermione,” he replied vaguely and I noticed him shifting in his seat. Harry raised an eyebrow at me, assuring me that I wasn’t the only suspicious one.

Mum waved her wand in a complicated formation, more complex than I could ever manage, and the dishes of food travelled effortlessly from the counter to the table before us, “did Hermione give a reason for not coming? She’s not embarrassed?”

Ron scoffed around the potato he’d already shovelled into his mouth, “Embarrassed? I should hope so, really mum! And anyway, we just agreed it wasn’t wise for her to come over for a while.” He was so insouciant as he said it that, for a moment, the entire table stopped eating and stared at him in disbelief.

Naturally, one of the twins broke the silence. “You what?” demanded Fred.

“Why would she be embarrassed?” asked Katie, her confusion clear.

“Well,” he began, as if about to explain magic to a toddler. “It’s all true.”

I growled in disbelief at his stupidity, “oh come off it, Ron! It isn’t true! I was there!”

“All night were you?” he asked, smugly and I began to see doubt on mum’s face again as I blushed. Git. “Exactly. Anyway, I think she’s out with Oliver tonight, we wouldn’t want to disturb them.”

 Mum cleared her throat and with narrowed eyes all for Ron’s benefit said, “Ronald, Hermione is always welcome here, I hope you didn’t tell her otherwise.” 

Ron looked sympathetic, “she didn’t want to come, Mum. I think she’s glad to be rid of us really, you have been on at her to find a new bloke too, and you didn’t know it would be in spite of us.”

Harry cleared his throat obviously growing uncomfortable with Ron’s descriptions of his friend but stuck, yet again, between the two of them with hardly any clue about the situation, “Ron, mate, that doesn’t sound like her…”

“Women, Harry. And it doesn’t make it any less true,” he stabbed another potato with his fork to emphasise his point.

Harry leant across me, ready to argue her defence but I cleared my throat and shushed him, “I’ll go over after dinner,” I whispered eyeing the distressed look on mum’s face and the disgruntled twins. “Get her side of the story, let’s not upset mum.”

A.N. This would have been finished at the weekend but I ended up in hospital again, can’t be helped. Feedback would be lovely, I’m trying very hard not to just delete this fic. Urgh.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own none of the Harry Potter canon in this story, it’s all JK’s and I’ve also appropriated one of the most recognised fanon quotes too – for which I apologise and give all credit to Jules and the glory that is TLAT.   
> A.N. So, I’m sorry for the delay. In my defence, I’m internetless, phone signalless and I’ve had a hospital trip on top of it all too (I also managed to see Taylor Swift though so it’s not been completely horrible). The next few chapters are mapped more efficiently than this story ever gets planned out so it shouldn’t be too delayed as long as I find wifi (bless you, Starbucks). There’s a short (1,000 odd words) Percy Weasley oneshot getting uploaded at the same time as this if you’re interested.   
> I can’t thank you all enough for your motivating reviews, follows and favourites – they’ve really made me smile and cheered me up this past crappy month.

-Hermione Granger-

Half past eleven, my eyes were blurring out of focus and I was considering throwing in the towel when, at bloody _half past eleven_ , someone knocked on the door. The bastard. The spy hole, upon reluctant inspection, showed a mass of red hair and I groaned, a Weasley visit (even from Ginny) wasn’t on my list of priorities at the moment; I’d already been chewed out by Ron, wasn’t that enough?

I pulled the door open, my head leaning on the doorframe, “hi,” I greeted her tiredly. Hoping my lack of enthusiasm would discourage her from staying too long.

She smiled cheerfully and pushed her way past, “aren’t you supposed to be on a date?” she asked.

I looked at her with confusion, surely I’d misheard her, “what?”

“A date, Hermione, apparently you do them again now,” she explained, clearly aggrieved that I hadn’t told her of any impending dates on the horizon.

“Well, unless you count an evening of bad coffee and legal documents as a date…” I told her trailing off as I got my point across.

“No, not really,” she replied disappointedly, so she was here to fish for gossip?

“Who told you I was on a date anyway?” I asked, curious now despite my tired eyes and brain.

She looked sheepish and the Weasley flush made its way up her neck, “Ron told us you were on a date…”

“Is that all he told you?” I asked pointedly.

My god, I thought absentmindedly as I watched her squirm, that shade of red really clashes with her hair. “He also said you didn’t want to come around anymore…”

“Well, that’s bullshit,” I told her, cutting to the chase.

Ginny Weasley’s grin was undeniably wide, “that’s what Harry and I said.”

“To his face?” I asked and watched, with grim satisfaction, as Ginny flushed red again.

“No, we didn’t want to upset mum.”

“Of course,” I nodded in sarcastic understanding, heaven forbid Molly Weasley would hear something that would upset her. Absentmindedly I noted my bitterness and resentment as a by-product of exhaustion but, naturally, in my tired state I ignored rational thinking.

“Look, nobody believed him, not really, just come around and explain the situation and it’ll all blow over!” There was desperation in the youngest Weasley’s voice as she pleaded a case I couldn’t really understand and I was shaking my head before she could fully finish whatever argument she was stringing together on the spot.

“No, Ginny, I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” she replied and I recognised the years of defying older brothers in the affronted tone of her voice.

“I can’t do it on principle,” I explained, trying to avoid rising to Ginny’s own brand of haughtiness that had gotten me in so much trouble with Ron hours before.

She scoffed, “what principle?”

I hesitated, thinking for a moment, “I can’t remember.”

“You can’t remember your own principles?” she asked with a roll of her eyes.

“I have a lot of them!” I said defensively. “I’m tired and it’s hard to keep track.”

“Oh, honestly, Hermione, you and Ronald are as bad as each other,” I must’ve looked suitably offended. “Yes you are! Don’t give me that look! You’re both stubborn no wonder you couldn’t hold it together…”

“That was a low blow, Ginny,” I told her, still managing to keep my voice calm.

“Well maybe that’s what it takes to get a rise out of you these days, Hermione, I don’t know what’s gotten into you but you can bloody sort yourself out as soon as you like.”

I levelled my gaze upon her, “maybe you should leave, Ginny.”

She gave me her haughtiest glare, a look well practiced on her brothers (of that I held no doubt) and made towards the door. “You’re pushing us all away, you know that?”

“Or maybe you’re all just bloody eager to leave,” I muttered to myself as she slammed my door.

\--

Magic, no matter how wonderful, wouldn’t enable me to turn back time (well, not after I’d destroyed the time turners all those years ago), and it was with this grim realisation that I took the little used stairs of the Ministry of Magic two at a time as I hurried to my office, willing my magic to defy all laws of itself and rewind half an hour so I wouldn’t be unforgivably late.

As my luck had it, it didn’t work.

“Magic, schmagic,” I muttered as I lowered my gaze and attempted to cross the office without drawing too much attention to myself.

Naturally, my luck rung in for a second round and my boss spotted me immediately. “Granger! You’re late! What in Merlin’s sweet name do you think you’re doing showing up to this office _late_?!” I tried excruciatingly hard not to roll my eyes at his ever present melodrama.

I turned to meet him in his path towards me, noted the eager gazes of my colleagues (sly bastards) and attempted to smile in, what I desperately hoped, was my most humble way. “Mr Carpenter, I am so sorry, I overslept and that’s inexcusable but I was working quite late last night on-“

“Just because you’re gallivanting around England with some Quidditch player does not give you an excuse to show up to work late, Granger.” Oh bollocks, I thought as he droned on, continuing to chastise me, he’d read the Prophet too. But of course he had, they really had the monopoly on magical reportage – someone should look into that.

“-you’ve been slacking on your cases, we’ve all noticed it, I can’t let this behaviour go on for too long. We’ve mad allowances for you, Granger. What with you being Muggleborn and having to catch up with your understanding of magical law, taking our generosity for granted would be extremely unwise.”

“I work just as hard as everyone else, Mr Carpenter,” I defended myself, trying to keep my voice rational when I felt far from it; the second Muggleborn dig in as many days stung hard. “In fact I was awake half the night building on the Scott case-“

“Yes, Hermione, I’m sure you were, but you wouldn’t have had to be up half the night if you hadn’t spent your weekend cavorting now, would you?”

“I didn’t spend my weekend cavorting or gallivanting or,” I paused to make my distaste clear,” frolicking! I went to _one_ Quidditch match and enjoyed the company of my friend and suddenly I am the local harlot! One would expect to trust that the head of Magical Law would not be so inclined to believe, without doubt, the words of Rita Skeeter but clearly one would be expecting too much!” I took a breath, recognising that this outburst was one of far too many of late. “Now, if you’ll excuse me sir, I do have work to be getting on with,” I told him curtly and made my way to the back of the desk, trying and failing to ignore the thumbs up shot in my direction by Matilda.

\- Oliver Wood -

The small Scottish cottage was picturesque and modest, it was the visual embodiment of humble beginnings and I looked at it with such trepidation that, I was sure, if you put a mirror in front of me I’d have found my expression hilarious. The gravity of the matter was not one to be mocked lightly though, this was serious, if I didn’t tread carefully now there would be a whole world of trouble on my shoulders. Once I crossed the threshold I’d need my wits about me, I’d need to be alert and completely ready for whatever the witches and wizard inside threw at me.

Fleetingly I wondered if this was a good idea, I was shockingly sober for what lay before me, but I had no firewhiskey on my person and it was too late now; the wards would have alerted them of my arrival and every moment of hesitation would be held against me later.

“OLIVER’S HERE, _MA_!” I heard a high pitched, shrill Scottish scream come from the upper floor, no amount of magical insulation would mute Sally Wood’s dulcet tones.

“Hush, Sally!” I heard my mother’s yelled response. “If Ollie were here then he’d have come in by now! He wouldn’t keep his dear mother waiting now, would he?” No matter her age, Ma’s lungs would always match anyone who dared try to compete.

“For Merlin’s sake, Oliver,” my father yelled from the living room, his head stuck out the window. “Come the fuck in before they both scream themselves hoarse in pointed abandon.”

“Isn’t that the point though, Da?” I hollered back. “Get them screamed out before I give them a clear target.”

“It’s too late, boy!” he called back. “She’s set her sights and so has your mother!”

I chuckled to myself lightly, cliché though it was my Da would be the ally I needed this evening.

“And don’t think I didn’t hear you swearing, Martin! Merlin forbid you’d protect your _innocent_ , young daughter’s ears.”

I could hear my father scoff as I crossed the threshold, “innocent? Sally is far from innocent, she’s the most corrupt nine year old this earth has ever known!”

“And whose fault is that?” Ma demanded, as if she would hex whomsoever had corrupted her precious daughter’s mind, although there was an obvious suggestion of blame aimed at Da in her voice.

“That’d probably be yours, Ma, if we’re honest about it,” I said conversationally as I stood in the doorway.

“Well then, Merlin curse me, she was a cherub when we brought her home from St Mungos, the blame can’t all be mine!”

“Yes, but it’s been a Wronski Feint ever since, love,” Da told her casually as he placed a kiss to her forehead.

I smiled, in the moments like this my family weren’t quite as bad as I’d make them out to be. They loved each other, that was always very apparent. If there was anything denied to me in my childhood or when I returned home, it certainly wasn’t love.

Of course then Sally charged me, wrapping her arms around my waist so tight that I could hardly stand and Ma turned on me and gave me her most determined look. “Now, Ollie, who is this Granger witch and why does Rita Skeeter deem you doomed?”

I rolled my eyes, “I’m not doomed, Ma.” 

“Of course you’re doomed!” Sally piped in, “she’s pretty. All pretty girls doom Quidditch players, Da said so.” I watched as my short and lithe mother turned on her tall counterpart, he’d been a renowned Seeker back in the day.

“Is that true, Martin Wood?” she asked, her voice dark with warning.

“Yeah, love, but don’t worry, you were the prettiest of the bunch,” replied Da, trying to charm his way out of mum’s gaze with a sly wink.

I was almost ashamed of her when she blushed slightly. “Ah, hush,” she told him, swiping at him with her palm. She looked me up and down, appraising me in a way that I was sure only a mother could. “Dinner’s in ten, Oliver, you better have a decent explanation for why you’re plastered across the gossip pages by then.”

I looked to my father as she walked out back towards the kitchen, Sally hadn’t relented her grip and, as I hugged her back, I asked him hopefully, “any advice then?”

“Don’t follow your father’s footsteps and become a dashingly handsome Quidditch player?” he said, grinning at my discomfort.

“Ma!” cried Sally, though she didn’t relax her hold on me. “Da’s spouting bullshit again!”

I looked down at her, more amused than shocked at her language. “Sal, do you know what that means?” I asked her curiously.

“Ma says that spouting bullshit is what Da does,” she said with a toothy grin and a clear acceptance that what she’d said was fact.

Da chuckled as he followed his wife to the kitchen, clearly hoping to help his way back into her good books. “Fair enough,” I muttered to myself and lifted my sister onto my back, minding that she ducked her head to avoid the beams as we followed.

\--

It was ten o’clock by the time Sally got sent to bed, much too late we would all admit later but it didn’t hurt her and I didn’t get to see her as often as I liked (though this was entirely my fault). The fire was lit and the firewhiskey had been well distributed between the three of us old enough to drink. My parents weren’t lax enough to let Sally hit the bottle yet, I was pleased to note, they indulged her far too often (I, as the older child, thought) but they’d had her later than either had wanted and considered her a blessing of sorts (contrary to popular belief) so her whims were often humoured.

“So,” broached my da as he topped up my glass. “Hermione Granger, ‘eh? Didn’t fancy aiming a little lower than brightest witch of your age?”

“Oh, you know, Da; why chase the Quaffle when you can catch the Snitch?”

“You’re a professional Quidditch player,” he said with clear disdain. “Surely you know by now that that goes against the rules of Quidditch? What’s a Keeper aiming for anything other than a Quaffle anyway? Or the Chasers aiming them towards you.”

“Well,” I conceded, deciding against arguing the logic of the phrase, “she’s a Snitch no matter how you go about it.”

He laughed deeply, “gold, flighty and a lot more trouble than she’s worth?”

“She’s worth 150 points and ends the game!” I defended, despite myself.

“Oh!” cried my mother, “she’s the beginning and end for you now, is she?”

I looked at her taken aback; how the bloody hell had I dug myself into that one? “Look, I like Hermione quite a lot. I’ve known her since Hogwarts,” I continued on ignoring their obvious urge to interrupt. “We had drinks at the weekend, my boss seems to think us dating is good for the team’s reputation, there’s little else to it than that at the moment.”

“At the moment?” asked Sally from the doorway, I looked to Da who looked equally shocked and worried in the face of her sneakiness. “So you want there to be more?”

“You’re raising her well then,” I said to Ma. “Yes, Sal, I’d like there to be more, if she’s willing.”

She laughed and it was light-hearted and unconcerned, “why wouldn’t she be willing? You’re Oliver Wood!”

I looked at her with concern, “she’s got your ego then, Da.”

“One of you had to take it,” he replied completely nonplussed.

I sighed, “go to bed, Sal. You’ve all got your answers now, sneaky buggers that you are.” I felt a wave of inebriation hit me as I stood to hug her, “now, I’ll see you in the morning, if Ma doesn’t mind me kipping upstairs. I’m not a fan of Apparition under the influence.”

I watched as my mother made to hurry upstairs to fix my bed but waved her away, “don’t, Ma, I’ll do it. I’ll see you in the morning,” I added and leant down to kiss her on the cheek. “Love you, night Da!”

Quickly I made my way up to my small room, opposite Sally’s, before they could argue and passed out on my bed before I could care to notice the cat lying on it or the array of linen my mother had clearly been using it to store. Sometimes home never changed and in that moment I was quite thankful for it.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters of the Harry Potter universe! Enjoy!  
> A.N. Thank you all for the lovely reviews and feedback, it's making my day at the moment. I would thank you individually but I'm uploading in a rush and I can't go through my emails - will try and get it done in the next. I do appreciate you all though! And I fully intend to get back to those who've inboxed me/commented at some point this week! x

-Oliver Wood-

A week after I’d visited my parents for dinner, I was still there and, surprisingly, it was by my own choice. I’d decided to stay a bit longer, way longer than I intended seeing as the original plan didn’t involve bedding down between the cat and the piles of laundry; the thing was it was so damned peaceful there and that’s how they tended to get you, my parents.

At my parents’ place there were no journalists and that was the deal breaker really. While they hung around my building without a care in the world, Ma was a notorious hexer and, quite intelligently, after the first wave found themselves explaining purple burns to St Mungos the rest backed off.

I woke up and made my way down to the kitchen for breakfast, another reason I was enjoying being there was the lack of my embarrassing attempts at cooking spells, I tended to cook ‘full Muggle’ nowadays just to save myself the bad tasting muck I produced that, no matter the spell, always smelt faintly of burnt sprouts. Ma cooked quite eagerly, but Sal hated it; this was probably through mine and Da’s encouragement more than anything but she’d often declare herself quite loudly (especially in the face of the dishes which Ma liked to be cleaned the Muggle way) a feminist who was above the chores that gender discrimination assigned to women. And then I’d have to do them.

That morning though Sal had been sent off to the Muggle school down the road (to get a ‘full rounded’ education) by the time I woke up, there were eggs and bacon on the stove and a pot of tea smoking happily on the table. Bliss. That was until the Prophet came. We could bar the reporters but that wouldn’t stop them from writing the usual rubbish. Of late they’d decided that Hermione and I were having ‘trouble in paradise’ – personally I’d have loved to know how they’d come about this because we hadn’t even spoken since the last weekend, every time I tried to contact her I’d get no response at all, my owl would return sans letter and hungry. I’d spoken to my family about it the night before and Ma had said she was frazzled, Da had said to give her space and Sal told me I was an idiot and stole one of my Yorkshire puddings.

This morning a scowling Ron Weasley graced the cover, the Chudley Cannons had lost massively (again) yesterday – an astounding 500 – 10 to the Magpies who had been doing notoriously badly. The Prophet had decided that perhaps the Cannons Keeper was so “ _thoroughly incompetent_ ” because of the love life of his ex-girlfriend, “ _another Quaffle that had slipped through his fingers_ ” being plastered across their front pages, though this didn’t seem to stop them. This was all well and good (and if I’m honest, thoroughly amusing) until my name got dragged into the mud alongside his. Puddlemere had won their game on Saturday and, unlike Ronald, I had successfully saved quite a few goals (15 if we’re counting, but who is?) something to which the Prophet credited to “ _a certain Muggleborn that we all know and love’s affections_ ”.

The implication that I couldn’t save 15 Quaffles on any given day did not go unnoticed.

The floo roared in the living room and I heard my mother cough the smoke from her lungs lightly as she stepped out of the flames, “Oliver, are you awake yet?” she called out, her voice aimed towards the stairs and my bedroom.

“In here, Ma,” I yelled in return, there was the common understanding of ‘why speak when you can holler’ in our house and it suited us well. We were outdoorsy.

She wandered into the kitchen, sighing heavily and shaking the rain off herself; the outdoor grates on Diagon Alley were a pain when it was raining but spared you from time consuming sales pitches in the stores. “Bloody raining,” she muttered, as if I hadn’t noticed. “Seen the Prophet?”

I nodded grimly, gesturing to the pages open in front of me. “Wonderful stuff, sucks to be a Canons fan, as usual though,” I allowed a small smile; there was a strong rivalry with the Canons in our household.

“Awful team,” she agreed before sitting opposite me and stealing a piece of toast. “What are you doing about Hermione though?”

“Beg your pardon?” I asked, shocked at her frankness.

“Well, there’s a certain, oh merlin, how did they phrase it?” She asked before giving into her pedantic nature and stealing the paper from me to quote them properly. “Ah, yes, your ‘Muggleborn we all know and love’, must they always mention her heritage…” she commented with a sigh. “Are you going to let her slip through your fingers?”

I sighed and took a mouthful of tea, “I wrote to her.”

She gave me a pointed look, “yes, I know. And she didn’t reply. So what are you going to do next?”

“I could visit her?” I asked, not even bothering to pretend that I knew what I was doing here.

“When?”

“Merlin, mother, I don’t know, after Quidditch?”

She looked at me appraisingly, if I didn’t know better I would say she didn’t believe me. “Okay, after Quidditch. Take her out for a drink, she might need it after this week of press.”

“Alright, cheers,” I muttered, thinking I’d gotten off quite lightly.

“And don’t forget to invite her round for tea on Sunday,” she added and I groaned, throwing my head down on the table in exaggerated despair.

\--

“Oliver, lad!” I heard Jack shout after me as I tried to rush to the changing rooms and avoid him. Damnit. The man was too sharp for my own good sometimes.

“Alright, Jack?” I called back, turning with a fixed smile on my face and making a point of ignoring the chortles of my team who had clearly cottoned on to my failed avoidance technique.

He hastily assured me that he was, indeed, alright and beckoned me to the side of the pitch towards the stand where we took our seats and looked out to the pitch above us. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you, Oliver. How’s everything going with Miss Granger, only I’ve been reading the Prophet-“

“Oh, honestly, Jack. Don’t believe everything you read in the Prophet! Everything’s fine, _we’re_ _fine_ , don’t worry,” I assured him, technically it wasn’t lying. I was sure of it.

He smiled and took my words as true, cuffing me round the ear affectionately, “well then, that’s all I can ask. Try and get a positive article or two in the Prophet though, ‘eh? It’s all doom and gloom these days.” I rolled my eyes but made sure to smile widely as he walked away whistling to himself lightly, apparently I needed to be my own spin doctor as well as a Keeper and Captain nowadays? Wonderful, they probably didn’t pay me enough galleons for this.

-Hermione Granger-

The past week had been awful and I mean truly awful. Digs, barbs and cruel remarks, I’d had them all. And this was just at work. Mr Campbell and Co. had taken offence at, I don’t know, _something_ and now were unrelenting in the workload they threw at me, and the mean little flippantly snide comments too. I wondered, very briefly, if he was a scorned Cannons fan.

Along with the nasty howlers, the hate mail and the torrent of interdepartmental flying memos came letters from Oliver.

The letters from Oliver posed me with a different problem, one I couldn’t really solve by making a show of throwing them into the bin and pointedly muttering about the free time of imbeciles. Because Oliver wasn’t an imbecile, not really, despite the question the Prophet had posed about his mental state. Unintentionally though, in my struggle to find the words with which to reply to him, I’d treated Oliver in the same way as everyone else: I’d ignored him. It made me feel awful. While everyone else had been mean and rude, he’d offered me support. Even yesterday, after five days without a reply, he’d sent:

_Seen the Prophet, arseholes, hope you’re okay, Ol. X_

And still I didn’t know what to reply. Everything just seemed so inadequate. Scraps of parchment lay all over my kitchen table at home, each professing thanks to Oliver for his consideration. Some asked him out on a date, but that was often scribbled out with a slash of black ink. Others discouraged him, for he wouldn’t want to waste his time on a Muggleborn witch like myself. In my more sensible moments I acknowledged to him (and myself) that the abuse was indeed getting me down, that I was beginning to doubt all of my friendships, my relationships, my self-esteem had taken a huge hit and I wanted a friend to turn to desperately. Yet it seemed quite presumptuous to tell him all that.

So instead of telling him all the things I _should_ have told him, I ignored him; and successfully made myself feel like an even shittier version of myself.

It didn’t really surprise me then when, at five o’clock on Monday afternoon, as the rest of the office left me (no longer bothering to even shoot me a pitying sympathetic glance for my overtime) Oliver marched through the door, head held high and a bouquet of daffodils in his hand. Matilda, the only other employee hanging about, noted his appearance with a thumbs up and the sudden need to visit the cafeteria for a ‘well-earned cup of tea’, or so she announced, I thought it prudent not to comment on the steaming cup by her inkpot.

The office now empty he smiled at me, somewhat tentatively, and sat on the corner of my desk, nudging the parchment over with his hip to make room. The flowers that he handed me went straight in the paperclip I transfigured into a vase and I allowed myself to appreciate them for a moment before turning to him. “Hi,” I said, the word sounding even more meagre and pathetic as I spoke them.

He nodded slowly, as if acknowledging the awkwardness, “hey,” he replied with a smirk, obviously not inclined to make this easy for me, I didn’t blame him.

“I got your owls,” I started, deciding to address the elephant head on.

“Oh, did you? That’s good to know, I thought the Nargles were stealing them,” he interrupted me, sarcasm plain as the nose on my face.

I cringed, “I, I deserved that. Sorry. If it makes you feel any better, my kitchen table is littered with half-written replies?”

“I’d have preferred a fully written and posted one, if I’m honest, Hermione, it’s been a tough week, it would have been good to hear from you,” he told me with a sigh. I must’ve looked thoroughly abashed though for he added, “not even for my sake, the poor trees, are you going to recycle the parchment?”

“I meant to reply,” I told him and was spurned to the defensive by the doubtful expression on his face. “I really did, Oliver. I just, everything I wrote seemed so… pathetic. I didn’t want to burden you and it all seemed so, so bloody heavy going. You were having a tough week too and I just didn’t want to add to it.”

“So you didn’t reply when I asked if you were alright? I was worried.”

“I know, and I was a git. I’m sorry.” He didn’t press me any further after I apologised and I took it as acceptance, if a begrudging one. For lack of anything better to say I gestured to the flowers, which were in full bloom now, yellow trumpets open and the petals proud and tall, “the flowers are lovely, thank you.”

“I didn’t know what you’d like,” he admitted, “but I’m good at daffodils.”

“You are,” I admitted with a smile, meeting his bright brown eyes. “They’re beautiful.”

“Well,” he said with a laugh. “I thought I might be in the dog’s house and wanted to charm my way back into your good books, what better way than with charmed flowers?”

“Indeed, though if either of us is in the dog’s house it’s me,” I replied, somewhat shocked that he could lay any of the blame at his door.

“Well, all that with Puddlemere? Wait, no, why am I trying to get myself in trouble… If you want to make it up to me though…” he trailed off, testing the waters.

I laughed, which judging by the surprise on his face, had shocked him. It shocked me too, really, I needed to laugh more. “I think we’re probably even then, how can I make up for my transgressions?”

“Coffee?” he asked, a faint hint of hope in his voice. “I figure alcohol should probably be avoided after last time,” he said laughing at the expression on my face as I remembered the fallout, the brown in his eyes glittering as the smile transformed his face into a pure, honest expression of teasing happiness.

I looked down at my paperwork, if I stuck around there’d be a good two hours of work ahead of me and though my mind told me I really should get on top of it, “fuck it. Coffee it is, let’s go.”

\--

Oliver told me to choose a place, for we’d gone to Muggle London, and I kept it simple and lead him to a Starbucks, not that we needed to walk far to find one. The novelty of the shop revealed just how pureblood he was and, though I’d been assured on our drunken evening that he was blood traitor through and through, no matter how many Muggle Studies classes he’d taken the chain clearly amazed him. His confusion was obvious so, to his relief, I ordered for the both of us and, with two steaming mugs of caramel macchiato in hand lead him to a low sofa in a darkened corner.

“…and these are _everywhere_?” he asked, stressing his amazement.

“Yep,” I replied, popping the ‘p’. “Global franchise, you can’t spit in central London without hitting one, least Wizarding place I know.”

He seemed satisfied with that and took to staring around at the place and people surrounding us for a few more moments. The silence was comfortable and I was able to sit back in my seat and watch him. His curiosity was clear but it wasn’t a simple one, while he wanted to ask questions and query the Muggle way of life he didn’t approach them, _us_ , as if we were stupid – it was genuine intellectual inquisitiveness.

He set his coffee down on the table before us and turned to me, regarding me with a hesitant expression, as if weighing up how I’d respond, “Jack spoke to me today, he wants me to generate some positive press…”

I raised an eyebrow, “with me?” I asked, although I didn’t need to. If Jack was asking Oliver about press after this past week it was sure to include me.

“Yeah,” he cringed. “Sorry, he just, was quite insistent. Are you… game?” he asked as if he were preparing for my rejection and slightly scared, it was worrying, I’d definitely blown up at too many people of late if this was how they were treating me.

“Sure,” I told him, not believing the sincerity of my voice and judging by his face he didn’t either. “Do you, er, do you think a meal in Hogsmeade would do it?”

He looked surprised at my suggestion, though I thought it simple yet entirely appropriate, there were only so many times we could go out without actually eating something. “That’d be, merlin, that’d be ideal. Low key but we’d get noticed by enough of the right people, if I pick you up at yours too…” he stopped, clearly realising how crassly scheming it was sounding and my appraising expression probably wasn’t helping.

“Do you, do you want this to happen, Oliver? Or is it just for work?” I asked, wincing at the poorly constructed question.

“I want this, I just, I think we need to go about it with a certain amount of bravado while we find our feet,” he explained. “I don’t think we have much wiggle room to get it wrong in public, the Prophet will pounce and you’re having trouble at work, I’d rather it was somewhat premeditated to avoid any more grief.”

All in all I appreciated his concern, I hadn’t told him much about work on the way here but it was clear that I was unhappy. I think anyone could tell that I was unhappy though, my owl knew, I was sure of it. “That sounds sensible, if strategic, more sensible than I expected actually…”

“Where _were_ you at Hogwarts, Hermione? All I did was strategise,” he said teasingly. “I nearly failed my Transfiguration OWL because I was jotting down plays in the margins, McGonagall went mad.”

“That doesn’t surprise me in the slightest,” I said with a laugh, glad that the conversation had lightened and we both were, seemingly, happy with the turn of the arrangement. Someone happy in my life, who’d have thought it?

We continued in that vein from that point, the conversation coming readily and easily, neither of us faltering nor giving in to any awkwardness. It took me by surprise when, two hours later, a tired looking barista pointedly started wiping down our table; it was closing time and the chairs were already on most of the tables so the floor could be cleaned.

“Wow, sorry,” I told her, though she didn’t seem to appreciate my apology, I couldn’t blame her. “We’d better head off, Oliver,” I muttered to the side, he was more concerned with watching the way the rest of the chairs were being stacked and I was sure I heard him remarking that it was ingenious.

We stood out on the pavement, awkward for the first time in hours, as the woman locked the door with a dark look. Thank merlin there were other Starbucks in London, I didn’t think I’d be welcome back there for a while.

“So, I’d better get back, I’m staying at my parents’ till this dies down and Ma’ll worry,” he told me his hand rubbing his neck sheepishly.

I thought it was sweet. “That’s fine, I have work tomorrow,” I said with a grimace.

He looked sympathetic, “just quit, Hermione. If you hate it that much, then shaft it.” I couldn’t help but laugh at him, I was a determined non-quitter, as was he; it wasn’t in either of our natures to quit. His smile was rueful, “yeah, I suppose I deserved that. Come here,” he moved in closer to me then, leaning down to close the space between us. The kiss was more tentative than last time, slower and more curious than the other; it also didn’t end in me throwing up which I considered a substantial bonus.

He pulled back and smiled at me, brushing hair from my eyes that I didn’t even realise was there, “I’ve just remembered something and this really isn’t the time, but,” he hesitated with a wince marring his (in my humble and totally unbiased opinion) lovely features. “My mother’s demanded you come to dinner Sunday.”

I stood back shocked, I hadn’t seen that curveball coming at all, “bugger, Oliver,” I remarked, glad that he had the decency to look somewhat embarrassed. “Sure,” I agreed with a shrug, for how bad could it really be?


	10. Chapter 10

\--Oliver Wood—

I braced myself before I Apparated, knowing that the ‘press’ would be out in full at Hermione’s building; I’d told Jack two days ago about the date this evening and somehow the Prophet had been tipped off, reporting about it just this morning. “ _A romantic date in Hogsmeade”_ they’d called it, so far so true (although the romantic aspect was wishful thinking at the moment). “ _Lovers reconciled_ ,” they’d teased (well they couldn’t get everything right) and then there’d been a page of speculation about what either of us would wear. A whole page; it was exhausting.

I twisted, turned and appeared in front of her doorway with only a slight pause to cope with the nausea and side-effects. All the time I spent on a broom made me considerably less susceptible to Apparation sickness but I still felt the effects; brooms were a much nicer mode of transport.

I rang the doorbell, but only as pretence for our audience, I’d stuck my head through her floo directly before leaving and she was well aware of my arrival already. I just didn’t want to hang about on the doorstep for too long. “Remind me again why I didn’t just come via floo?” I asked her as she opened the door with a smile and a kiss to my cheek. Flash bulbs popped as their potions ignited.

“Oh, I don’t know, something about ‘giving them a show tonight’,” she replied as I followed her through to her flat on the ground floor.

I pulled a face in response, “this was my bright idea, wasn’t it? Sorry about that. It was good at the time, I swear.”

She smiled at me, “I know, and it’s somewhat necessary, if we play them at their own game for a bit then we can at least keep everything else between us. Send ‘em a few smiles, a few kisses on the doorstep, hold hands every now and again – then we can be ourselves until they get bored.”

“You think they’ll get bored?” I asked, hopeful that she was right.

“Definitely, someone will have a baby, a Pureblood will have a party, we just need to bide our time,” she replied insouciantly, she’d definitely come to terms with the situation then, I thought to myself.

I smiled and offered her my arm, “well, Ms Granger, I do believe we have a nine o’clock reservation to meet, shall we floo?” I told her with a degree of mock sincerity that all she could do was laugh in my face, which was my intention, she didn’t laugh enough.

\--

The restaurant, as promised, was private and quaint, fancy but not overbearing and full to the brim of people who’d (somehow) positioned their table so it was as close to ours as possible without being too blatant. I was about to argue the seating but Hermione shushed me with a confident look on her face, muttering a spell that I assumed involved some wandwork under the table.

I looked at her questioningly, “muffliato,” she explained with a shy smile and, upon seeing my still confused face added, “they won’t hear us now.”

“Perfect,” I replied, somewhat taken aback but glad of her interference, I hadn’t particularly wanted our conversation plastered across the papers tomorrow – no matter how willing we were to tolerate them tonight.

She smiled and laughed, noting the effect that her spell had started to have on the surrounding tables. All around us people were, as politely as possible, trying to clear out their ears – as if they were blocked or muted. “Can you hear buzzing?” I heard someone from a much further table ask their partner.

“You need to teach me that spell later, love.” I told her with a grin, anticipating all the times that it could be used, especially in the locker rooms at Puddlemere.

\--

While they couldn’t actually hear our conversation, that didn’t stop the surrounding tables from ‘watching the show’, as Hermione had called it. The waitress would come along to check we were okay with more attentiveness than any other table received. I almost felt bad for the table who’d been waiting to be charged for a half hour when Hermione stood to go to the loo (all heads and ears suddenly perked up at the prospect of her leaving the muffliato’d area), the waitress rushed over to ask if anything was needed etc. and the other couple were forgotten once more.

The room was lit dimly, romantic another woman had called it with gushing enthusiasm, and small candles were on each table while larger candles burned from brackets on the maze of walls. It was hardly open plan, promoting ‘privacy’ instead, but the many walls were only three-quarter partitions and some held small stained glass windows that coloured the light.

The whole place seemed to be on the fancy side of a ‘rustic’ theme, though Hermione called it ‘provincial bistro’, organic foods were used as an excuse for the extortionate prices of the small meals that were to the taste of neither of us, though it suited our cause. This was the kind of in vogue place we were expected to visit by Jack and the Prophet and everyone else so we went there, to keep up appearances, and had already decided to do our own thing the rest of the time.

Hermione returned and sat opposite me, “would you believe I got cornered in the toilet?” she asked with a tight smile.

I took her hand in mine on the table and asked, “do you want to leave?” To anyone else it would have looked like some romantic moment (or at least the proposition of a booty call as I expected it to be reported the next day) but the need to hold her hand, as she looked so tightly wound across from me, was only born from the desire to comfort her.

She shielded her face from the crowd and shot me a look that was pure stress, clearly she’d been harassed in the loo and it took all my might not to go and track down the witch who’d ruined our (if not a bit strange) perfectly good evening. Because the truth was, even though we’d been on show, I’d enjoyed being with her. I’d enjoyed spending time with Hermione and I was sure that some part of her, before her trip to the loo, had been enjoying herself too. She drank deep from the wine in her glass and offered me a smile before agreeing to leave.

The night was chilly in Hogsmeade, as you’d expect in early November, but that didn’t stop us from walking a small distance away from the restaurant before we Apparated back to London. The stars were bright and visible, in London you could hardly see the stars at night, especially not in the more built up area that Hermione lived in. The Muggle light pollution was too strong whereas here, in Hogsmeade, there was almost none at all, save for a few overhead lights on the walls of buildings and shops.

“I’ve always found Wizarding villages strange,” Hermione confided to me quietly, her breath steaming in front of us. “They’re so small yet such a hub of activity, I know the Wizarding population is smaller but, in a Muggle community, they’d be towns and cities rather than small hamlets and parishes.”

I laughed softly, looping my arm through hers to pull her closer (and not just for warmth), “I’ve always felt the same about Muggle communities, London’s fun and all but, Merlin, it’s so crowded. The scale of Muggle cities, they’re so intimidating, I’ve often thought that that’s the reason the Wizarding community is so scared of Muggleborns and Muggles integrating with them; the sheer scale of it, they could lose themselves entirely.”

She scoffed, “but there’s such a well-established sense of community in Wizarding Britain, and I know that in part stems from the small stature, but I hardly see how something so deeply rooted could lose itself entirely!”

I grinned down at her, “I’m not saying I agree, I’m just saying I understand! They’re scared of losing their self-assured identities in a community that’s never changed in hundreds of years, the idea of being completely disrupted by a foreign balance they can’t predict? They must be terrified.”

She leant against me and I took it as forgiveness, “but they are punishing their evolutionary progression by refusing to accept the possibility of change, it’s frustrating. And the racism, god, it’s like they all try to be excessively racist to refuse to admit change is happening around them. They hide behind it, I don’t even think they believe half of it, it’s just socially accepted and expected of them.”

I stopped us and looked at her appraisingly, her eyes seemed worried, as if she feared she’d gone too far, spoken her mind too much. “How can you be so accepting of a community that so actively tries to exclude you? You try and deduce them rather than respond in kind, that’s… amazingly tolerant,” I told her in a state of mild awe.

“Someone has to be tolerant, else nobody will be,” she replied with a small smile.

“There’s a difference between being tolerant and being a pushover though,” I told her, thinking of all the times she’d let casual pureblood racism slide.

“You’re right,” she said with a sigh. “I need to start actively speaking out again, I just thought that maybe this would work, it hasn’t though. I was just so tired of fighting after… The war. I fought the Death Eaters, I fought for my job, I fought for the small modicum of respect they showed me at work and I thought I’d give them time to catch up. They haven’t though.”

I pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead. “I’ll help you this time,” I told her. “You can lean on me when it gets tough again, don’t worry.” And though she made a show of scoffing, rolling her eyes and pushing me playfully, I could tell she knew my words were sincere.

\--Hermione Granger—

We Apparated back to mine and landed, to the surprise of a napping photographer, on the doorstep. “Lovely night for it!” he heckled before snapping a shot of us gripping at each other, the Apparation sickness having more of an effect on me after a few glasses of wine than I’d braced myself for. Yuck.

“Oh, wonderful,” Oliver muttered with a skywards glance. “What are the odds on _‘wrecked lovers wander home wasted’_ being the headline of the gossip pages tomorrow?” he asked me with a quirky smile while I searched for my keys in my bag.

“High, unless we give them something else to print, I suppose,” I replied to him, smirking at his confused expression and gripping my keys tightly before unlocking and waiting for him to catch up.

The pops of Apparation announced the arrivals of three more journalists, and (after wrinkling his nose in disgust at their presence) he levelled his gaze on me and brushed hair from my face. “Hermione, can I kiss you?” he asked me, paying no mind to the magical paps surrounding us. I grinned, he’d caught up, smart man. I nodded, smirking up at him, before he pressed a soft and hesitant kiss to my mouth.

“I’m going to Apparate away now,” he breathed against my lips, mere centimetres separating our faces.

I quirked a brow and pressed a harder, more forceful kiss against his lips and he responded in kind before pulling away, winking at me, and Apparating into thin air. Cheeky git. The photographers had caught it, there was no doubt of that one, it was mission accomplished I supposed.

I made my way into my flat and Oliver’s head, bless his soul, was already in my fireplace.  “Are you okay?” he demanded of me as soon as he saw I’d made my way between doorstop and living room safely. “That’s what you were getting at, right? You’re not upset?”

He was so endearingly concerned that I laughed lightly at him, “that’s not exactly what I wanted, Oliver, no,” I told him with a smile dancing on my face as I approached the fireplace.

He began to ramble as I knelt down in front of him, “look, Hermione, I’m so sorry, I must’ve got the wrong end of the bowtruckle, I didn’t mean to-“

I cut him off by taking his face between my hands and kissing him roughly, it was frantic and graceless but the combination of his concern and the evening were ahead of me. One of his hands came through the fire to brace himself against the cold stone, the green flames doing nothing to heat the hearth, they only provided faint warmth and a source of communication.  Another hand submerged itself in the disarray of my hair and I moaned against his mouth as he took the opportunity it provided to pull me closer.

As we progressed, holding each other tighter and kissing with more force and desperation, I grew less and less aware of my surroundings, although I couldn’t be sure if it was the lust or the displacement of the floo that was the cause. The cold of the fireplace nursed the grazes the rough stone gave my knees, the warmth of the tickling flames fuelled our thirst for each other and, with our arms tight around each other holding one another close it seemed that I would cross through the floo sooner rather than later.

That is until we were so rudely (but probably rightly) interrupted.

“Oliver, is that Hermione you’re almost dragging through our fireplace?” asked a voice behind him and I all but stopped my affections as he froze in my arms, though I leant against him to steady myself, an anchor in the confusion of the magical fire.

“Ma,” he said and I immediately begun to giggle into his shoulder, unable to contain myself. “Um, Merlin, Hermione this is my mother,” he introduced me with obvious disbelief. “Shouldn’t you be in bed, Ma? It’s quite late,” he told the short woman who waved cheerily at me before burying his head in my neck and groaning in embarrassment.

“Well, I was waiting up to see how your date went; it went well I assume, Hermione?” she asked me and I nodded, stunned mute. “Good, he was so worried, bless him. Thought the Prophet would scare you off, despite everything. I told him you were made of stronger stuff, but does he ever believe me? Bah! You’ve got to be joking.”

“Ma,” Oliver protested with a weak whine from my still somewhat stunned embrace. “Please, go to bed.”

She grinned happily, “alright then, Oliver. I know where I’m not wanted, just be glad it wasn’t Sally who heard your loud affections, he takes after his father, Hermione, can’t shut him up, nighty night!”

“Did, did that just happen?” I asked breaking my dumbfounded silence.

“Not if I can convince myself it didn’t,” he replied before pulling me back for a kiss that was much chaster. “I better go, else I’ll never hear the end of it,” he told me with a wry smile, his lips were swollen and eyes glittering mischievously. 

“Night,” I replied with a grin before withdrawing back through the magical middle-space we’d occupied so enthusiastically.

“Night!” he called back after me, and though I wasn’t quite sure, I thought I heard his mother call out goodnight once more before the green flames returned to orange and begun to warm me as I sat there grinning like a fool.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N. Well, I hope you enjoyed this one… There’s going to be a companion oneshot for the next chapter too, I’ll link to it though.   
> Massive thanks to everyone who’s followed on FF.net and Octavian_Grey who is wonderful xx


	11. Chapter 11

\--Hermione Granger--  
Friday morning I made my way into work early, hoping to get a head start and avoid every witch and wizard who had been so eager to stop and ‘chat’ yesterday morning in the Atrium. The Prophet had, as expected, published a photograph of Oliver kissing me Thursday morning with a glee that was barely contained in print. Everywhere I’d gone that day I saw the chaste kiss (in comparison to the one in the fireplace) reflected back at me and, because it was a Wizarding photograph, it was animated; honestly, a girl could develop a complex. It had certainly put me off my lunch.

Today I’d vowed to have a Prophet free day. I would get to work early, respond to any owls at the top of my in-tray (although none concerning Oliver, obviously) and I would enjoy work. It was imperative that, for once, I _tried_ to enjoy work. Last night when I was lying awake, thinking about everything but my inability to sleep, I’d decided that half my problem was that I’d resolved to not enjoy Magical Law anymore. Because the environment could be so caustic, I’d resigned myself to it and had subconsciously chosen to be unhappy. It was, admittedly, a three-am rationalisation. That didn’t stop me wanting to give it a go though so, at six in the morning, after two hours sleep, I got up and came into the office with the full intention of proving myself wrong.

The first thing I noticed after arriving was that the sun wasn’t even up yet, I’d used the floo (an experience that now left me blushing) to get to the Atrium and the first window I’d paused to look through was that in the office. Magical Maintenance liked us quite a bit, thank Merlin, and weren’t inclined to punish us as much as they were the other departments (something we credited to legal knowledge – the Aurors got off lightly too). Our windows usually tended to be true to time and season, though, if they were feeling generous, we were likely to get a lot more sunny days than was typical for England, especially in November. The sky was cloudless and still quite starry; MM did like to exercise their creativity by eradicating the light pollution of London so we could (if we were at work during the night) still see them. A violet and pastel blue tinge coloured the sky with only a faint stroke of pale red suggesting the coming dawn, it was beautiful in a way that made me distrustful, though I knew the sky capable of such moving sunrises I always got suspicious of magically presented ones – they never rung as true.

I turned away, chastising myself for getting so distracted by a painted sky when I’d come in early to do some work. I was still somewhat behind, my in-tray now measured in at ten inches of parchment and scrolls, and I wanted to give off a good impression this morning. Today would be a good day.

Six hours later, with the promise of a lunch break looming, I was finally getting on top of the chaos (in that I could now see the doorway over the pile rather than having my view entirely restricted). Mr Campbell had been by a few times and, though he was still quite clear in his disapproval (although what he disapproved of, I couldn’t be sure), he’d also given me a tight nod and told me ‘well done’, in regards to the Baker case – praise that, though little, I’d take without query.

It was all going so well that, when a familiar face crossed the threshold of the office and started to approach me, I actually waved and smiled at her before it dawned on me why she was here. She’d never visited me before, she would probably never visit me again (something I didn’t realise until after her motive was clear), and we hadn’t even been particularly close at Hogwarts, so of course she was here for the gossip. And that was when the day fell into rapid decline.

Though I’d shared a room with Parvati Patil for six years (for being pureblood she had been able to stay on for her seventh year rather than going back after the war like I had), we had never been particularly tight friends. We’d chat in our later years if the occasion arose or if Lavender and Padma weren’t around to keep her company and we’d sit next to each other at breakfast while the boys and Ginny had Quidditch practice but that _really_ was it.

The last time I’d seen her had been two years ago, she was working at St Mungos researching alternative magical therapies, a solution offered to Ron after he’d injured himself during a Cannons match. I’d gone along for the appointment and, while Parvati and I had shared some polite conversation, that was the beginning and end of it.

Yet here she was, in the flesh, and the need for a ‘legal consultation’ to boot. It all seemed quite convenient.

“I’m not really sure that I’m the one who can help you, Parvati, you should go to one of the senior members…” I told her. She’d marched over and sat directly in front of me, I was actually quite sure that I was not the person to help her at all; I was a glorified skivvy and certainly not qualified to give her the legal advice she was so insistent on (although she’d yet to even hint at any actual problem).

“Oh, I suppose you’re right,” she replied, making a show of seeming contrite. “I just thought it would be so good for us to see each other again. It’s been so long since we last saw each other.”

I tried to not let suspicion colour my voice, but I couldn’t really help it. “Yes, it has,” I said, not wanting to give her an inch.

“So, what’s new with you?” she asked, her nonchalance barely masking the eagerness in her eyes – she was here for gossip.

“Oh nothing much,” I replied, my smile fixed now, I wanted to get back to work and then lunch.  “Still working here,” I added pointedly.

“And dating Oliver Wood?” she added not even feigning insouciance anymore.

“Yes,” I said tersely, “and dating Oliver Wood.”

She smiled with satisfaction, “how’s he?”

“Pardon?”

“How is he? It’s been so long since I last saw him,” her face was wistful and I couldn’t help but feel confused, though I hadn’t spent much time (none at all in fact) in Oliver’s circle of friends, I had been fairly sure she wasn’t a part of it.

“When did you last see him?” I asked, trying not to sound too suspicious.

Her eyes darted shiftily and she refused to make eye contact with me, “oh, at a Quidditch match a few months ago…”

I stared at her frankly, “to talk to, Parvati?”

“Oh, no, I suppose I haven’t _spoken_ to him since…” she pauses trying to think. “Since he accidentally broke my Gobstones set in the charms corridor and offered to replace them.” She says with an expression of sheer pride, clearly she was amazed that she had remembered (as was I).

I made a show of exasperation, “that was in second year, Parvati!”

“Oh my, hasn’t time flown!” She sounded so surprised it was comical.

“Do you even have a legal problem?” I asked, giving up and cutting to the chase. She was wasting my time and any minute now Mr Campbell would-

“Granger!” I heard him yell and cringed, too late. “You’re not taking personal time during work are you?”

“No, sir,” if I could talk myself out of this it would be a miracle, I was already on thin ice with him. “Ms Patil came to me with a legal problem…”

“Oh, did she? Well why didn’t you forward her to one of the senior members?” He asked, latching on to the knowledge that I would be in the wrong on two counts now, I really wasn’t qualified to talk to Parvati about her problems when there were more able senior members – it was a very backwards system as it nearly entirely denied me experience.

“Well, I tried, sir,” I told him making my voice as insistent and forceful as I dared.

“…and instead you chose to have a personal conversation on my time,” he continued, his contempt for me hardly disguised on his face. “Ms Patil, if you’d follow me for some _proper_ legal advice, I’m sure I could help you much better anyways.” He raised an arm to lead her away as she gathered her things looking sheepish. She could either fabricate a better ‘legal problem’ or land me even more in the dragon dung, and, as she followed him to his office, I was fairly sure I’d just end up in more trouble either way.

\--Oliver Wood--  
Her message had been simple, sent by an owl with no instruction to stick around for an answer, “ _Jealous Duck, 8pm. H x_ ”. Her brash tone left me thinking it would be best to assume the worst so, at 19:50, I made my way to the pub where we’d first got to know one another and chose a table in the corner, prepared to settle in for the duration.

Two hours later she was slurring and slumped across the table, “you know what I hate? _Oliver_ , you know what I hate?”

Oh, sweet Merlin, I thought to myself with a sigh, this was a test of our ‘relationship’ without a doubt and an angry emotional drunk Hermione Granger was not to be scoffed at. “No, Hermione, what do you hate?” I asked with insurmountable patience.

“I hate my boss, Oliver!” she told me loudly. “He’s a prick! He hates me and I hate him and I hate his silly, stupid, stuck up job!” the ‘s’s were blending together and one of the neighbouring tables was staring.

Trying very hard not to roll my eyes I asked the question I knew she would knock back immediately but had played on my mind ever since I met her, “I know, Hermione. Why don’t you quit it?” 

She looked at me aghast, “I can’t quit, Oliver Wood!”

“And why not? You hate it, he hates you, you’re the brightest witch of our age, remember? Do something more worthwhile, something you enjoy if you’re so brassed off with it.”

“Like what?” she scoffed, “what else could I do?”

“Anything! Anything you wanted to, Hermione. You could become an Auror, go to an independent law firm, study something else…”I trailed off, having drunk enough that even I was struggling to come up with options for her. “Merlin, you could even start your own newspaper if you put your mind to it!” Admittedly I was clutching at straws but I truly believed she could do anything she wanted and she needed to know that.

“A newspaper?” she asked with a laugh.

“Yep! A new Prophet, put them in their place, challenge them, give them a competition, force them to report the _truth_ if they want to keep up with you.”

“You know what I think, Oliver?” she asked, eyes sparkling with mirth.

“No, Hermione, what do you think?” I replied, smiling at her clear happiness (though how much of it was caused by inebriation, I wasn’t sure).

“I think you’re drunk!” she told me with smug satisfaction.

“You’re one to talk, sweetheart.”

\--

Saturday morning came with a hefty hangover and a strain in my back, I squirmed around trying to stretch out before I realised I wasn’t at home in bed. Feck. I opened my eyes with trepidation, not entirely sure I wanted to know where I’d ended up, if I were in Hermione’s bed and it was this uncomfortable then we’d need to have words. It turned out I was curled up and cramped on her fabric sofa, and though it was wide, it wasn’t particularly long which certainly explained the pain in my back. I groaned wearily, why on earth was the overhead light on so early? Why was the world carrying on? Didn’t they know it hurt?

“Morning!” Hermione sung at me from her kitchen table, questionably chipper.

“Morning,” I groaned in response, “why the bloody hell are you so awake? You drunk more than me,” I didn’t begrudge her lack of hangover at all. Not one bit.

“A lot of coffee and motivation,” she explained. “I have too much to do to allow myself to be held back this morning by a silly hangover.”

I squinted at her, only now noticing the mass of parchment surrounding her, “what’s motivated you then?” I asked, curious now and trying to subtly sniff out the location of the coffee pot – unlike someone I couldn’t abate a hangover with sheer force of will.

“You! Oliver, you motivated me, last night!” she said brightly, leaving my somewhat stunned.

“Crumbs, what did I do last night then? Was it good for me too? And why am I on the sofa if it was…”

She shot me an amused look, “and I thought I drank more than you, Christ, Oliver. We came back, you (very chivalrously) offered to kip on the couch, though I think you were scared I’d puke again more than anything… Anyway, last night, you told me to quit my job-“

“I’ve been saying that for weeks, hardly new,” I interrupted with an exasperated sigh.

“-and start a newspaper. So I am. That’s what I’m going to do,” she was very matter of fact and smiling, smiling more than I’d ever seen her smile.

“What?” I asked, floored by her answer.

“You told me to start my own newspaper,” she explained patiently, waiting for me to catch up.

I strained to think back to the previous evening, “did I?”

“Yeah, I dismissed it at first, of course, but then this morning I was thinking and, actually, it seems quite smart, well done.”

“Okay, firstly, less patronising, please,” only when she looked abashed I continued, “secondly, a newspaper? I didn’t think journalism was your thing?” I asked hesitantly, not wanting to discourage her, but at the same time unsure she’d thought it through entirely.

“It’s not,” she conceded, “but an editorial role would be, and I think the need for an alternative daily is enough that it outweighs any aversion I have to journalism.”

“We do need an alternative, everyone curses the Prophet but does nothing to stop buying it – other than the wireless it’s our only source of news.”

“Exactly and I think it’s time to change that!”

“Perfect, need me to do anything?” though mentally begging her to say no and let me go back to sleep, I didn’t want to discourage her and, when I was less hungover, helping seemed a good idea.

“Have any journo contacts looking for a job away from the Prophet?” She asked hopefully.

“There are probably a few I can owl, test the waters…” I admitted, trying not to sound too hesitant.

“You could do that then,” I must’ve blanched because her face suddenly turned sympathetic. “After you have coffee and the bacon sandwich warming in the oven.”

“Bless you, Hermione Granger.” I told her before getting up and setting to work, bacon sandwich in hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, there’s a one-shot called Gobstones that accompanies this that I’ve uploaded, it’s the incident with the Gobstones set that is certainly not a must read but there if you’re interested. I wanted the opportunity to write a more rounded Parvati, less gossip hungry and I was interested in the dynamic she’d have had with Padma… This would have been updated a few days ago but our internet is still down and Starbucks (in the UK) has now decided to block FF.net. The horror. Ta for all the feedback and everything, as always it’s lovely to receive and a massive cheer up at the moment.

**Author's Note:**

> Continuation of 'An Aerial Approach', also posted on FF.net


End file.
